


All That Shit Seems To Disappear When I'm With You

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Communication Failure, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank’s been attracted to Mikey for awhile, a feeling that he’s kept carefully to himself. Other people don’t have the same compulsion for secrecy. On the first day of school there’s a short angry boy standing at Frank’s locker, condemning him for making Pete’s life hard. September quickly turns into a month of bad decision making as Frank, Pete, and Patrick deal with Mikey not feeling the same way they do.</p><p>Except, that’s not true. After all, none of them have actually <i>asked</i> Mikey his side of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Shit Seems To Disappear When I'm With You

The first day of junior year Frank gets dropped off. It’s not something that will happen every day. There might be a day or two that it’s sleeting and a ride avoids pneumonia and three weeks of bed-rest and expensive medication. Mom will offer then just to avoid the hassle. There might be a day when he has a giant diorama that will take up a second seat on the bus, which will get him loathed by every other passenger, and a ride is the only way to prevent her son from being spit on or flunked when an angry stranger throws it out the half open window. But for the most part it’s busing, or find your own other mode of transportation. She calls it instilling self-care values.

Today is different, because a ride on the first day of school is tradition. The Ieros have a long history of following tradition. It sinks into every aspect of life, from the mark his father and grandfather carve in their drumsticks, to birthday dinners being dessert first, full course optional, to parent accompanying child on their first day. At least at sixteen he’s no longer being led into the school with a guiding arm over his shoulder.

Once inside Frank’s first order of business is to find his locker and set it up. It should be locate his friends, but it’s not. Ray and Bob have graduated, and he probably wouldn’t seek out Bob alone anyway. Not now. This year it’s just him and Mikey, and it’s impossible to say if he likes it that way. Every time he’s grateful for the alone time, he starts deluding himself that it’s because Mikey wants it that way, not because they’re the youngest in their former group, and therefore last to be together. Facing reality after a moment of hope always sucks. But it’s not like being alone works either. The month Mikey was at camp he just pined, like a moron. There’s really no way to win this sort of thing.

It’s easy enough to find. It’s a 1100 locker. The thousand means first floor, which isn’t particularly surprising. After that one time in freshman year he got stubborn and came to school in an oxygen mask for a day before giving up and going back home the administration has been more accommodating about things like Frank probably collapsing if he has to climb to the third story for his textbook. The hundred means it’s in the science wing. Last year Frank’s and Bob’s were both in the industrial wing. He’ll miss the smell of oil and exhaust, but it’s probably better for his lungs. Frank pulls the lock out of one of the front pockets of his heavily zippered backpack and strings it through the hole without locking it. According to Gerard they used to supply the students locks, but they were so old a bit of jiggling could get just about any of them open. And in case of suspicion of anything bad, it’s not like they can’t just snip them open anyway.

With the door open and his backpack tossed at his feet, Frank pulls out his file folder and duct tape. He doesn’t have an exact arrangement in his head, and has more printouts than actual space, but he’s got time to work with it. If he runs out of time to track Mikey before homeroom there’s always lunch, not to mention that they have fourth and sixth period together. Mikey time is later, right now it’s time for interior decorating. You can’t paint a locker, but you can wallpaper it. You can’t burn incense, but you can stuff a sock with potpourri and jam it in the back of the locker. And fuck Gerard for constantly laughing at him about it. Gerard has always smelled like dirty underwear and cigarettes and death. He’s got no right to say what stuff should smell like.

Frank’s maybe expecting a little shit as the hallways start to thicken with people. What for is open to debate. Maybe for taping a pride flag up, maybe for taping up a few band logos. From his two years of experience he’s learned that Jersey teenagers have opinions on _everything_ other teenagers do. Or maybe it’s a universal thing. How the fuck would he know? He’s never moved. Regardless, sooner or later someone is going to talk smack about the shit he has taped up, and he’s gotta pick between ignore, defend, and attack.

What he’s _not_ expecting is a tiny chubby guy with classic square plastic emo glasses to come up to him and kick him. “Fuck you.”

“Dude, do I know you?” It’s not that Frank doubts the fact that he can piss people off. He and his last boyfriend had a. Well, it wasn’t _hatesex_ , it’s not like they were Harry and Draco or Wolverine and Cyclops. It was more like annoyancesex. It was a relationship based on mutually irritating each other, and then provoking orgasms. And it’s not like he needs to be sexing someone to annoy them either. But still, he’d think someone would at least need to have met someone to annoy them.

“You’re the reason that I’ve been up every night for the last week.” It’s accompanied by a glare that’s like the eyeball version of a kick to the shins.

“Um. No?”

“Do I _look_ like I’ve been sleeping!” 

The answer to that is no, he doesn’t. Whoever this guy is, he’s got a Paris Hilton on The Simple Life number of bags under his eyes. But it’s not like he’s Frank’s next door neighbour, and Frank’s been partying every night with the bass at max. Frank’s got a family with three girls on one side, and an elderly couple on the other side. Not to mention his mom would kick his ass if he turned the bass on his music to full blast.

“Look, I didn’t do-”

“Mikey, or as it became about three seconds after we got to know him, Mikeyway-”

“Yeah, that happens a lot.”

He gets another glare-kicking for his interruption. “Mikeyway brought a few pictures with him to camp. To ward off homesickness or whatever, I guess. Whatever, I don’t care. One of them is you two hugging, and you grinning this ridiculous fucking grin.” Frank decides not to demonstrate, in case that makes the guy start actually kicking him. But he knows the expression the guy means. It’s just instinctual when someone asks him to smile to do it as obnoxiously as he can. “Which was fine until they broke up at the end of the summer. And then it was all awesome Frank, and awesome Mikey, and I bet they’re having awesome sex, and why can’t I have awesome sex with awesome Mikey? For two fucking weeks straight. Whenever the thoughts occur to him. Which, just so you know? Is every fifteen goddamn seconds. Guess how many times I’ve gotten woken up so we can talk about you at five fucking am?”

“Um.”

“Yeah. I don’t know either. I have fucking lost count. So thanks and fuck you for snuggling my best friend’s ex. Just wanted to let you know I fucking hate you.”

Frank could protest multiple things, the first being technically he hugged Mikey way before this summer, the last being that he didn’t actually do anything wrong. But what comes out is “want me to tell whoever that we’re not actually having awesome sex?” Saying it to a stranger would be just another opportunity to drill it into his own skull.

“Jesus christ, what’s wrong with you? Stay the hell away from Pete, do you want me to be up for the next month?” The guy doesn’t give Frank a chance to say um again, he just glares a third time then takes off down the hall. 

The first three periods move slowly. Frank’s not the best student in the world to begin with. He loves reading and thinking about stuff, but he can barely bring himself to read things he’s forced to read. This tends to lead to a lot of skim reading and frantic bullshitting on the night before an assignment is due. The fact that the content of all three periods is just orientation and course outlines doesn’t really help him maintain his focus. There are only so many times you can look at the person to the left of you and state one biology question you hope gets answered by the end of the semester before you want to hang yourself with boredom. Although he really _does_ want to know how some plants can dissolve the bugs that feast on them.

When he’s not worried about properly aligning the three hole hole punch that’s being passed around, he’s thinking about Mikey and Pete. Mikey’s been back from the camp for two weeks and he never once mentioned hooking up. Frank’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt about it not being a boyfriend. Just because Glasses said they broke up doesn’t mean it was a break up in Mikey’s mind. But it’s clear there was some alone time, and Mikey didn’t tell him. Mikey tells him everything. He has since they met playing Red Rover at recess in second grade and Mikey told Frank his hand was sticky because he had a Fruit Rollup in his pocket, and did he want a piece after the game? Mikey had insisted he share with Gerard too, who was sitting on the monkey bars because sixth graders were too cool to play games, so the ripped off bit hadn’t been very much at all, but Frank still considers it the start of a beautiful friendship. An _honest_ friendship, which makes this omission really fucking weird.

At lunch it’s still the predominant thing in Frank’s head. He has the future to worry about the fact that he’s probably going to fail AP math and he really should have taken consumer. Mikey hiding a hookup from him is a concern now. And not just in the way that Frank’s going to torture himself with imagining the guys that Mikey would rather have sex with than him, although god knows that’s true. It’s a concern because if Mikey is deviating from the relationship model they’ve used for the last eight years, -and fuck, doesn’t he sound like Dr Phil or Oprah right now- then something is seriously wrong.

Frank brings his own lunch to school. He’s in the minority, but it’s a large minority. Approximately a quarter of the students completely brown bag it, a little under a third buy every item whether from the caf or the convenience store two blocks over, and a over a third have some combination of the two. Some bring their own lunches because it’s cheaper, but for Frank it’s primarily so he doesn’t get sick. He’s not quite allergic to white flour, he’s not quite allergic to dairy, he’s not quite allergic to nuts or sugar. Nothing Frank eats will kill him, but most things he eats will make him ill. Picking proportions to avoid the worst of it is more easily done when he actually knows the ingredients list, something caf food doesn’t allow for.

Of course, there’s the added benefit of snickering as he passes Mikey a hundred back in line, and looking up as he dumps his sack of food out on the laminate table to see his best friend flipping him off. By the time Mikey joins him with his Pepsi and grilled cheese in hand Frank’s already done his tupperware container of blueberries. He sits beside him, not across from him. It’s bad etiquette. They’re basically taking up four spots because no one who isn’t a friend would sit across from them, and they’ve got no more friends at school. But Frank doesn’t say anything. He’s got bigger conversations to have.

“So, you went to camp with someone named Pete?”

Frank’s spent a little over three hours thinking about how he’s going to start this conversation. As always, he prefers bluntness over so called tact. All tact does is draw out a potentially awkward conversation until it’s long and even more awkward.

Mikey goes wide eyed for a moment. Frank’s never actually seen a deer, in a natural habitat or in headlights, but in emoticon form Mikey’d be two zeros with a period between. Then he settles, at least enough fix his face into a colon and vertical bar. “Yeah. You know how you could buy the camp experience in two week chunks?”

Frank does. He himself tried to beg his mom for two weeks with Mikey, even knowing that getting sick from a stranger’s germs or starving from lack of acceptable food were both extremely likely. She didn’t go for it. Meanwhile Mikey, who didn’t want to go at all, got four weeks of camp to get him out of holing in the basement with Gerard. He grunts agreement and waits for the good part of the story.

“Pete and his friend Patrick both got the full eight week treatment. While I was there we hung out. Them and Alicia, and Travis and Matt and Disashi. They were cool. Camp was actually a lot less shitty than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah, tell me more about Pete and Patrick.” If Patrick’s the first name that Mikey thought of after thinking Pete, then he’s probably the guy that cursed him out. Frank wants to know more about him too.

“Patrick’s got this bitchy sarcasm thing going. Reminded me a lot of-” he cuts off guiltily, then masks the silence with a bite of his sandwich.

“You can say his name. We broke up, he’s not _dead_.” Hell, it was even a basically amicable break up. It just got to a point where the joy of annoying each other was less than the annoyance of being provoked, so they stopped so they could still hang out in a group before Bob went off to college.

“So Patrick was kind of like Bob, and Pete was just loud and obnoxious. A good summer friend.”

“Friend, or _friend_?”

“Really?” Mikey raises his eyebrows and takes another bite.

“You’re stalling,” Frank feels compelled to point out.

“We had a thing at camp.”

It’s that bare statement that throws up warning bells in Frank’s mind. His earlier thought is confirmed by this continued behaviour; even when directly confronted Mikey’s not saying anything. In any other situation he’d continue talking, saying something sarcastic like _how many details do you want?_ and then he’d actually divulge whatever Frank asked about. Frank’s always done the same, even when it made Bob punch his arm numb. It’s how he and Mikey work.

“If you liked it enough that you don’t wanna tell me about it, track him down.” Frank’s got no doubt that Pete would be easy enough to find. It’s a series of circumstantial evidence; the person at this locker this morning was probably Patrick, Patrick and Pete are probably best friends if Pete was telling him his every thought no matter what the time, best friends the same age probably go to the same school because teenagers make friends with their classmates. Even if he doesn’t go to Johnson, it’s the twenty first century and Facebook is built for connecting to others.

“We don’t live in Grease, okay?”

Frank can’t help himself. He belts out “summer lovin’, had me a blast. Summer lov-” The abrupt cut off is from a sudden elbow in the gut. Normally Mikey doesn’t care when Frank makes scenes, but he’s got a sensitive spot when they occur while he’s eating.

“That’s my fucking point, okay? I had a great summer. But it’s fall now, so it’s over. Pete’s not gonna rev an engine and catch me again, I’m not gonna change my look to impress him. We don’t live in a movie, so rekindling and do wop numbers aren’t gonna happen.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t look good in all leather at a carnival anyway.”

Mikey smirks, and Frank does his best to smirk back. It’s a fucking blatant lie. If Mikey ever wore leather pants and borrowed Gerard’s leather jacket like Sandy, Frank might explode and splatter come all over the walls in a death shower. But Mikey doesn’t need to know that. It’s the one thing Frank isn’t ever going to talk to him about.

***

Frank spends the next three days looking forward to Friday evening. They’ve had the plan since July, and soon they’ll finally be able to execute it. Mikey’s birthday is on Monday, and they’re going to spend the weekend at Ray’s university. Penn State is supposed to be a huge party school, and they want in. It’s kind of a long drive, and according to the trip cost website about sixty bucks in gas, but they’re all throwing in. It’ll be worth it for three nights of celebrating Mikey’s sweet sixteen in a manly fashion. No sleepovers, or theme parties, or makeovers, or streamers, or anything else that would be on that stupid MTV show. Except for how they’ll all be sleeping in Ray’s room, and the Way brothers have recently gotten into eyeliner, and Ray’s the kind of guy that would decorate, and the theme is of the weekend is definitely beer. But no pink or sparkles, that much Frank is sure of.

It’s not until after the scrape of thirty chairs pushing back to stand for national anthem, then scraping again as everyone sits back down that Frank realises today is going to be a long day to get through. The student rep that does the announcements cheerfully lets everyone know that it’s a senior appreciation day. Frank groans, and he’s not the only one. It makes sense that he forgot. He doesn’t have senior friends this year to be be even marginally excited for. Besides, most people tend to repress shitty events.

SA days are basically a massive inconvenience on the other three grades. Frank’s not sure what the official explanation for the day is, but all the students know the real reason, thanks to a few good Google searches. His generation is awesome like that. It’s why journalism is dying. Every individual teenager already knows everything, no one needs a newspaper. In this case, it’s well known that Principal Ropen has a degree in early childhood education, as well as the qualifications that made her a high school principal. She developed this whole technique for transitioning toddlers into school readiness. Apparently her first year she transferred those ‘buoy confidence to support growth’ strategies into getting seniors ready for university, and it had some sort of quantifiable results. Less skipping, or better grades, or something. Whatever it was, it’s a tradition now, and school boards are even less likely to mess up a tradition than his parents.

Every month there is a seniors day, like they don’t already have shitty king of the castle attitudes. Even Ray was kind of a jerk towards the end of last year, and he’s Ray fuckin’ Toro, the nicest metalhead in North America. No matter what the event, the younger students always get sucked in. Teachers don’t get paid enough to give a shit, so whether it’s blowing balloons to attach handwritten inspirational quotes to, or kettle-popping a fuck ton of popcorn for a last period movie, the younger students do it.

Some of the students use it. Devoting lunch hours to help can be bullshitted into volunteering or leadership skills, depending on what slant they’re writing college applications with. Some of the students even enjoy it. Frank’s never really understood the school spirit mindset. Given the option he’d much rather Nirvana it up than be peppy, smell like it instead of embodying it. But if other teens get off on it, good for them.

Frank only participates when he has to. Except for the one time last year when they did a karaoke thing, and they needed someone skilled enough on the guitar to be able to fake the top fifty, and some classic rock. That was actually fun, and not a chore at all. Today he doesn’t volunteer, and he’s not conscripted. It’s an assignment. Up until last period Frank thinks he’s going to get away with not helping. Then it comes out of nowhere, and his options are do his best or get a bad grade.

Last period with Mikey is cooking class. Ten ovens between thirty students means he and Mikey have a fellow lab partner on the days that it’s skills instead of theory. Jamia was nice enough yesterday, she holepunched all six course outlines before giving one to each person at the table. Today is their first chance to see if she can actually cook. Frank hopes she can, as Mikey is fucking dangerous around an element, and honestly probably shouldn’t even be allowed near one. For the safety of the class, even the entire school, Frank will be telling him to stand in the corner and not touch a thing any time electricity is used.

The lab in question is cupcakes. Apparently by 3:30 they need to have something like five hundred cupcakes cooked and iced. If Frank’s basic math is right they should have more than enough by now, twelve cupcakes per station multiplied by six periods is over six hundred. Maybe they’re going to have a bake sale or something.

“Anyone care if I delegate?” He knows Mikey won’t care, but Jamia might. Once he gets nods of approval he picks up the recipe print out and scans it. There’s a lot of hand mixing, and he’s not sure who to assign it to. On one hand, he and Mikey both have decently strong arms with good rhythm, both from playing instruments and jerking off. On the other, making Jamia do all the delicate measuring stuff just because she’s a girl seems pretty bullshit. “Mikey we need a cup of cake flour, a cup of sugar, and three quarter cup of all purpose flour. Jamia, half a tablespoon of baking powder, half a teaspoon of vanilla, and half a teaspoon of salt.”

They all go to the front of the room, Mikey and Jamia to get their dry ingredients from where they’re laid out on the table. Frank’s got the wet, the butter and the eggs and the milk, all three of which are still in one of the several fridges in the pantry the next room over. Once everything’s together Frank starts stirring, cursing the butter for being rock hard. He could stick it in the microwave, but it’s got different settings than the one at home, and he’d probably melt the butter and that would be equally bad.

Once the batter is together Frank leans against the counter and tries to work some feeling back into his hand. The impression of the spoon handle is still clear against his bright red palm. Mikey and Jamia each grab a spoon and start filling the liners.

“For someone that is completely fucking blind without their glasses, you’re pretty accurate,” Frank calls out.

“Meanwhile I just fail.” Jamia replies completely cheerfully. She seems to have a great ability to move her spoon from the bowl to the tray just as it starts to drip. Drizzles of batter are everywhere.

“The less in the liners, the less we have to ice.” Mikey grins at her, one of his normal close lipped smiles.

“That’s not actually true, but thanks for trying to cheer me up about my incompetence.”

After the cupcakes are in the oven, they have twenty minutes to get the icing done. Looking around the room Frank would guess they’re pretty on schedule. Suarez’s group has their icing done too, but that’s hardly a fair comparison. Suarez has known what he’s doing for college since freshman year, laughed when the career counsellor tried to make appointments with everyone in the class. It’s pastry school in Europe or bust, unless that commune his crazy senior friend keeps talking about actually somehow happens. Frank’s not even sure why he’s in this class. It’s an easy A, sure, but it has to be as boring as art was for Gerard. When they were freshmen and he was a senior Gerard complained pretty much nonstop about it.

Frank gets another stick of butter, along with the small bowl of confectioners sugar and milk and vanilla. He puts the tray on the counter and shrugs. “One two three not it. My hand is gonna fuckin’ fall apart.”

Jamia, because she’s smart like that, nukes the butter before she starts to whip it. She’s even smart enough to not dump the entire four cups of confectioners sugar in at once, so there’s no mushroom cloud. Frank’s not sure Mikey would have been that smart. They start doing the dishes as she stirs, Frank washing and Mikey drying. It’s better that way. If Mikey dries the worst thing that can happen is the dishes go back in the cupboard wet. It’s not like they’ll develop mold before first period pulls them out tomorrow. If Mikey washes, worst case is they stay slimy.

The oven timer goes off and Mikey crosses before Frank can dry his soapy hands and hold him back. He at least puts on the oven mitt before he opens the door. That doesn’t seem to matter, Mikey still curses about seven times as he turns the cupcakes and slides them back in. He holds up his still gloved hand. Frank wants to drown himself in the no name brand bubbles as he sees a giant hole in the mitt. Mikey couldn’t have noticed that _before_ he touched the hot metal?

“Jamia, you used all the butter, right?”

Another instance for what Frank is sure is going to be a long catalogue of times when he wanted to drown himself. “You don’t put butter on a burn. Put your hand under cold water, or go get a ice cube from the pantry.” It can’t be bad enough to go to the nurse for. That’s just Frank’s stupid feelings getting all swoony, not reality. If Mikey was actually badly hurt, Jamia would look concerned. Instead she’s just very concentrated on the concoction in front of her. She looks like it’s going to be awesome icing if it fucking kills her.

The next time the oven has to be engaged with, Frank does it, only using the mitt without a hole in it. The tray goes on one of the non-venting elements, and they sit down. According to the recipe, the cupcakes are supposed to cool for at least ten minutes before they try to spread the icing on them. Frank’s not sure what would happen if they didn’t wait, but considering he’s just learned icing is half butter and half sugar, he’d guess it would melt. Meanwhile they’ve got the worksheet to complete. It’s three questions, all completely ridiculous. The first is why they used butter instead of margarine, which only Suarez will know. The second is asking them to convert all measurements used today into ml, because they’re all in a Canadian math class, instead of an American cooking class. And the third is what they learned today. Frank avoids the temptation to write _I learned fucking metric_ and says a few sentences about the temperature of solids determining how easy they are to stir. Nothing intelligent, but probably better than swearing. The fourth number doesn’t have a question, just a number and a blank space. Frank figures it’s a typo.

“What did you two do for the third?” Judging from her scrunched face, Jamia thinks it’s as stupid as he does. “I wanted to put metric, but I just put the importance of grip when stirring a big mixing bowl.”

Frank laughs. “If you had a dick, you’d be a boy after my own heart. I almost said that too. Just about softened butter versus refrigerated butter.”

“The importance of making sure oven mitts don’t have holes.” Mikey shrugs.

“Nice guilt trip. Baxter really should have checked. Isn’t that a safety precaution? Like you could sue or something.”

“No, it wasn’t a guilt trip. I really shoulda checked it.”

Thankfully icing their cupcakes goes easily. The three in station two are swearing loud and frequently enough that Baxter gets out of her chair to pretend to care. Frank’s pretty sure Suarez cares more than she does. He _loves_ food, she’s just getting paid.

Once she’s up, she stays up. She goes from station to station, taking a bite from a cupcake picked at random and grading it. Her face stays blank as she chews and marks something down in her notebook. Then she asks all three at the station to eat one, and grade themselves and justify the grade under number four. Frank’s a little startled, but not badly. If he’d actually paid attention to the course outline Monday he would have already known this. The one he bites into is pretty good. Not amazing, but pretty good. Better than station two’s, at least. Their icing was somehow so thick it ripped the cupcake tops off when they tried to ice them. He gives his group a nine after she moves on to station seven, then writes a few lines of bullshit about why.

Just before the bell rings, Baxter slips into her teacher voice. “Are there any volunteers to stay and make sure each senior only takes one?”

It’s like shouting into a black hole. Frank doesn’t feel sorry for her, she should know better than to ask. If she wants results she should have just assigned it as a penalty to the class’s worst bakers.

An instant later he feels sorry for himself. Mikey’s got his hand raised, and when he’s obvious he’s got her attention he says “me and Frankie’ll do it.”

Frank glares as Jamia raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Don’t you think a week in is a little early to be doing extra credit?”

Jamia interrupts, “never too early to be a suck up.”

“Dude, there will be leftovers. You’re telling me you think our roadtrip will be better without a dozen cupcakes?”

He’s got kind of a point, Frank has to admit.

“Besides, you really think Gerard will be waiting outside at three thirty?” Frank doesn’t bother to answer. He and everyone else that’s ever met Gerard knows he’s horrible at showing up anywhere on time. He used to be equally shit at time management, but SVA and its constant multiple deadlines have given him new skills. Mikey takes the silence as confirmation that he’s right. “Exactly. So while we wait the extra hour or whatever we might as well get free food out of the deal.”

It ends up working as well as Mikey predicts. After a bit of a frantic, sugar craving swarm right after the bell, the room clears. Within fifteen minutes everyone is gone. No student has any interest in staying after school on a friday. They’re out of the cooking lab and heading for Mikey’s locker by 3:50. His is on the top floor, a stupid amount of stairs that leads to Mikey hoarding everything he needs for the day in his backpack. A broken back is better than three flights between every period. They have no choice but to go though. He and Mikey both have bags of birthday supplies stored in their locker for the day.

In the middle of the stairwell Mikey’s cell buzzes with a text. He has the noisiest vibrate setting Frank’s ever heard. He takes a second to check, then informs him “he’s leaving school now.”

Frank remembers he and Ray trying to talk Mikey off a proverbial ledge the summer between freshman and sophomore year. Among other things they printed off transportation routes to show how easily Mikey could get to his brother if he needed him. It’ll take Gerard twenty nine minutes to get here, and that long only if he honestly does leave now. They’ve got plenty of time to grab Mikey’s stuff, go back downstairs, grab his, and secure a spot sitting on the grass. Mikey’s not really a grass person, but the concrete walkways are are heavily stained with spit and old gum. At least on the grass there’s the illusion of cleanliness.

“I’m surprised your stalker didn’t show up,” Frank comments, playing with one of the zippers on his backpack.

“What? Who?”

“Pete.”

“He’s not a stalker.”

“He’s obsessed with a picture of me and you.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s a stalker. He didn’t even try to add me on Facebook.”

That doesn’t mean much in Frank’s book. Everything on Mikey’s profile is public. It’s like saying he’s not a stalker because he didn’t ask for permission to look at a billboard with Mikey’s face on it. Not that he actually _does_ think Pete is a stalker. He’s just a believer in love. Pete and Mikey had a great thing, and Pete still cares, and Frank knows Mikey enough that he’s sure he still cares too.

“Did you try to add him?”

Mikey doesn’t answer, instead thumbing at his phone. A minute later it loudly vibrates again. “He says twenty minutes.”

“Uh huh.” Frank will believe it when he sees Gerard’s Impala.

Gerard gets out of the car when he finally pulls in front of the school. It’s only been a week since they last saw each other. That doesn’t mean Mikey doesn’t step in for the first hug, Frank for the second. Frank almost forgot that smell, cigarettes and markers and general unwashedness. Mikey’s got the last, but not the first two. It’s nice, like a home from home. Hopefully Ray smells like Ray four hours from now.

“Tell me one of you got directions? Otherwise we need to stop at home or the library or something.”

“We’ll go to the library.”

Frank understands the wariness in Mikey’s voice. With both his mom and Mrs Way it’s easier to get yelled at after something than trying to ask permission before something. Either mother will be able to sense a plot afoot, and stop them from doing this. At this point, there’s no turning back. Luckily he’s got this covered. “I’ve got them.”

“In the immortal words of some immortal men-” Gerard pauses to grin, and Frank prepares himself mentally to quote back whatever line he needs to “It’s a hundred and six miles to Penn State, we’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and it’s dark, and I’m wearing sunglasses.”

“Hit it,” Frank intones, completely unsurprised to hear the same words coming from Mikey.

Technically Gerard’s wrong on all counts, except the sunglasses one. It’s not quite five so it’s sunny, though hazy. Between the two of them they’ve got a pack and a half. He and Mikey have given Gerard their twenty dollar share in the tank needed to get there and back, but he hasn’t stopped at a gas station yet, so it’s halfway between halfway and empty. And according to directions he printed from Google Maps, they need to get onto the I-80, and continue down the I-80 for 196 miles of their 230 mile journey. Then it’s ten miles down I-99, and then they’re there. But quoting is never about accuracy, it’s about vibe, and Frank only dreams he could be as badass as Elwood and Jake.

The long trip into Pennsylvania goes smoothly. It’s one of the longest stretches of time Frank’s ever been in a car, but with Mikey and Gerard talking non-stop it doesn’t feel like it. Gerard’s driving, of course, and Mikey’s claimed the front passenger, but Frank’s got the back middle and leans forwards the entire time. It’s almost like being in the front. No one suggests turning down the music so they can hear each other better, they just use what Frank’s mom would call outdoor voices.

Eventually, after one bathroom stop and two coffee stops, they’re in University Park. According to Ray he really lucked out getting a room in the dorms here, they’re fiercely coveted. Frank doesn’t see what’s so great about it, but he’s never really been one for landscaping and architecture. Interior decorating, maybe, but who the fuck cares what the outside of a building you spend the whole day inside of looks like?

“We should all text him now, and see who he replies to first to see who he likes best.”

“I texted him when I parked. He says he’ll meet us here.”

Frank starts to scowl in Gerard’s direction, then completely forgets about it when he sees Ray on the horizon. Sure probably a lot of university students are trying out new looks, but not everyone will have a great fucking mane. He sprints in that direction, full loosely strapped backpack bouncing against his ass with every step. Ray knows him too well, he stops walking and braces himself before Frank leaps. It’s nice to be caught. He would have leaped regardless, but Ray can get pissy when he gets grass or leaves in his hair. Apparently it’s harder to comb out of long hair.

The Ways follow at a slower pace, which Frank doesn’t understand. This could quite possibly be the best weekend of their young lives, and Mikey and Gerard are _walking_ to face it? Whatever, Frank knows the right way to be, and that includes clinging to Ray like a limpet. The heels of his sneakers are in Ray’s back, arms around his neck, and he knows Ray won’t let him fall. Ray’s not Bob, for all the good and bad that statement means.

“Hey Toro.” Mikey’s pretending calm, and Frank wishes they had crashed to the ground. At least that way he could throw a clump of grass at Mikey. Big faker.

“Hey Mikeyway. How’s impending adulthood?”

“Dunno. Ask when I have a red cup in either hand.”

Frank dislodges himself so Ray doesn’t have to continue talking into his collarbone. It’s a considerate act, and most likely one of the last of the weekend. He’s gotten drunk a few times, and he’s not exactly Mr Manners. He can only imagine it’ll be worse when he gets completely trashed for the first time.

“Actually, I was thinking tonight it’ll just be us. An actual birthday party thing. Starting tomorrow we’ll do the frat thing.”

“Don’t know much about science book, don’t know much about the French I took-”

“Gerard, not every frat is Animal House!”

Ray gets shouted down from three sides; Gerard’s ‘they are in my head’, Mikey’s ‘they should be’, and Frank’s ‘then those frats suck’. He means it too. If D-Day isn’t riding a motorcycle up the stairs, it’s a shitty frat house.

Ray’s dorm room is intensely average. Frank doesn’t see him in it at all, or just barely. There are a few decent posters up. For the most part though, it feels like items a set designer picked out to make a three walled set look like a university bedroom. He makes a mental note to start collecting cool shit, so he doesn’t leave his home bedroom completely barren, but doesn’t have this in two years either.

Mikey doesn’t seem to notice. He sits on the bed that’s obviously Ray’s -Ray’s kind of ridiculous about making his bed, he’s the only one Frank knows that actually does- and bounces once or twice. “How long we have this to ourselves?”

“I told my roommate you were coming, so he fucked off.”

“That’s a really great roommate.” Frank can only hope his future roommate is so accommodating.

Ray shrugs and laughs his high laugh. “Not really. I told him my two gay best friends and my sexually ambiguous best friend were coming. He’s not homophobic, he’s just-”

‘Heteronormative?” Gerard offers when Ray trails off.

“Close enough, yeah. Besides, his parents live like twenty minutes away. It’s not like it was a hardship for him to go get his clothes washed.”

“You think I’m sexually ambiguous?”

“You still crossdress?”

“Yeah?”

“Then yeah.” Ray shrugs again. Frank can’t really disagree. It’s not like Gerard’s trans, or a flat out drag queen. He just likes to mess around, sometimes. See if he can pass. Ambiguous is a good term for it. Ray Toro is a smart man. Frank blames his family. The Toros are an exceedingly good clan.

The next thing Frank knows, Ray’s pulling a Dollar Tree bag out from under his bed. The first thing that comes out is a set of disposable shot glasses. They all watch as he lines a bunch out on the carpet. He stops when they make a cube -sixteen total- and gets a bottle of Smirnoff from the same bag. That Frank doesn’t believe he bought from the dollar store.

“If I do all sixteen I might die of alcohol poisoning.”

“Shut up, fuckface. I’m not a moron. Four shots each, in honor of Mikey.”

The first goes down pretty easy. Frank’s gag reflex kicks up at the end of his swallow, but he overrides it by taking the second. That one is harsher. The third nearly makes him throw up, system instinctively knowing something bad is happening. He takes a minute to breathe, not surprised that Mikey and Gerard can do the fourth without a problem. The Ways are the kind of family that only make one type of egg nog at Christmas, and everyone that wants some drinks it, no matter what the age.

It stays pretty low key. In fact, it could be any of the summer days the five of them spent together, minus the month Mikey was gone. They play cards, rounds of Speed getting progressively more aggressive until hand slapping starts to become a strategy. They run a stream of movies in the background, letting Mikey pick from Ray’s vast downloaded catalogue, and reenact all of the dialogue perfectly. Ray continues to dole out the shots, but they only drink enough to maintain a base level of drunk. As Ray explains more than once, blackouts are to be saved for tomorrow.

Around three am Mikey pulls out the cupcakes. There are six left, and the icing is sort of smeared across the top of the tupperware lid. They each take one, fingers sliding a section of icing off the container. Without a sugary topping it’s just a muffin, and no one wants that. Unfortunately the first food Frank’s eaten since lunch has some kind of effect on him. He made the damn things, so he knows the cupcakes don’t contain tryptophan, that drugs that makes turkey an exhausting food. And yet he can’t help but yawn. Once he does, everyone starts, going around the room in a circle of contagion.

“The adult in the room wants to sleep. The young’ins cool with that?”

Frank rolls his eyes. Gerard’s always making a big deal of their age difference, but it’s not like he’s thirty. Still, he is interested in crawling under a blanket and closing his eyes. “I’m more than good with that.”

“I’m sleeping in my bed, obviously. Who wants where?”

Frank is still sober enough to know he shouldn’t share a bed with Mikey. That way accidental cuddling and meaningless morning erections lie, and further up that road madness lies. He could think of a good excuse to get either other friend, but in the end it’s easiest to say Gerard smells like feet, and his stomach is a little delicate right now. The Ways share Lee’s bed, and Frank curls against Ray. Platonic cuddling is nice, when there are no awkward emotions tangled in.

When he wakes up, he’s got the bed to himself. There’s no residual warm spot, so Ray’s obviously been gone a while. After a minute or two his eyes open stickily. Frank reaches up to wipe the grit from the folds, and sits up. Mikey is on the edge of the other bed, half under the blankets. He’s reading one of Ray’s textbooks, Frank can’t tell what subject from across the room.

Frank’s considering grabbing a book of his own when the door opens and Ray comes in with a recyclable grocery bag. He puts it on his desk, digging in it with one hand as he drops his wallet onto the bed with the other. Frank watches with interest as Ray turns domestic, making the three of them bowls of cereal and pouring tall glasses of chocolate milk. Mikey accepts his like it’s his due, balancing the bowl on Gerard’s thigh. The cold will probably wake him up soon, Frank’s own bowl is cold in his fingers.

“I don’t actually have celiac, you know.”

“Shut up and eat your Rice Chex,” Ray mumbles around a mouthful.

It takes a single gulp of the chocolate milk to realise it’s actually white milk with kahlua in it. Frank splutters a bit in surprise but it makes sense. The milk mingling with his cereal is white, after all, and what’s the likelihood of Ray getting two jugs in one day?

“This is gonna be one lush fucking weekend.”

“Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Ray points out. Frank raises his glass in a fake toast before taking another sip.

The next thirty six hours is nothing but alcohol. Frank loses track of how much he’s had to drink, only knows the clear thing he drinks isn’t water, and the sour red thing he drinks isn’t Koolaid. The more he drinks the less the drinks burn his throat. At least until he pukes the first time. After that the first few shots burn like the first he drank Friday evening. But Gerard is at the toilet with him, handing him a cooler to gargle, and then Ray is at the keg pumping like a gentleman because the girls around him don’t have the coordination, and then Mikey is standing with him outside some restaurant, offering him a flask as Frank sucks his cigarette. There just never seems to be a good point to say _no, no more_.

And then all of a sudden Ray is plucking the beer cup out of his hand. Frank scowls and tries to grab it back, but Ray is taller than him, and Frank’s pretty sure if he jumped up to get it, his feet wouldn’t be able to find the ground again. Gravity’s already being tricky, jumping is just asking for something to go wrong.

“It’s midnight!”

“Huh.” It would be cooler if it was twelve twelve. Or twelve fifty one. That would make a mirror image on a digital clock.

“Frank! It’s midnight, and it’s Sunday. Where are Gerard and Mikey?”

“Gerard’s getting laid.” Frank grins at the thought. Everyone deserves to get laid. Even dudebros. And Gerard isn’t even a dudebro, like everyone else here. Gerard is cool. Gerard deserves to get laid twice. Or, like, a threesome.

“Excuse me?”

“He tripped and went all bloody and the girl he was talking to all night took him away to go ‘help him’. He’s totally get laid.” Frank wishes his love life was that easy. He’d totally bleed all over the damn place if it would make Mikey want him.

“Well he needs to stop. You and Gerard and Mikey need to go home.”

“I don’t know where Mikey is.” He saw him earlier -unless that was yesterday- but not recently.

“Arrrgh!”

Frank blinks. It doesn’t help the world get any less fuzzy, and Ray still looks way too upset. “We didn’t lose him forever. We’ll find him event- eventually.”

“Focus Frank. Help me find him now, so you guys can go home.”

“Okay.”

After thirty seconds of relative silence, Ray snaps “you’re supposed to-”

“I know. There just aren’t any options. Gerard tripped ‘cause he’s like fall down drunk. I’m a probational driver, and I’m not fall down drunk, but stumbling drunk could be accurate. Mikey doesn’t even have probational, and he’s between fall down and stumbling. We’re staying overnight.” If there’s one thing that’s been pressed into the heads of every child of his generation it’s that drunk driving is a sin on par with eating babies and fucking dead people.

“Donna will fucking kill me.”

Frank shrugs. If Mikey misses his birthday breakfast Mrs Way probably will, but Frank can’t do anything about it. It’s not like teleporting is a real thing. And if Mikey tried to apparate he’d totally splinch.

“I’m driving you home.”

“What?”

“I’m sober enough to blow safe on a device, and-”

“It’s four hours, Ray.” Frank knows that for sure, he totally printed off the map.

“Better than Donna waiting until Thanksgiving to kick my ass. That woman holds grudges.”

Somehow Ray finds them both. Frank’s not entirely sure how. The floor moves with each step so he needs to be careful with how he’s walking. As close as he tries to follow Ray, the taller man is moving almost frantically, asking people questions. All of a sudden Mikey is beside him, his steps equally as measured. Frank grabs his hand. It’s clammy with sweat, but Frank likes it anyway. A minute later they’ve got Gerard, collar of his shirt ripped, zipper undone. A minute after that they’re at Gerard’s car. Ray Toro is fucking magic. It’s the only possible explanation.

Frank and Mikey get Gerard installed in the backseat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping him upright. Mikey wobbles his way to the other door, and Frank steps into the Impala’s front seat, happy not for the first time this weekend that Gerard doesn’t own an SUV. Having to climb up into the car would have made things a lot harder.

Ray flicking on the turn signal is the only sound for the next while, and Frank doesn’t like it. There has to be something interesting on the radio. For that matter, he knows for a fact Gerard’s got some great burned CDs. When he reaches for the console though, Ray slaps his hand. “They’re sleeping.”

Frank knows. He just doesn’t think it matters. The Ways could sleep through anything.

It’s past four when Ray parks in the Way driveway. Frank knows because his blurry vision is focused on the digital clock on top of the coveted CD hole. He’s tired, but he knows from a wealth of past experience that sleeping in transportation always makes him feel shitty, and so he didn’t let himself drop off.

“You take Mikey, I’ll take Gerard.”

All considering, it’s a worse deal for Ray. He has to navigate stairs, while Mikey’s room is on the ground floor. It’s hard enough getting Mikey down the hall, and on to his bed. Frank nearly leaves, then sighs and turns back. He can’t leave Mikey fully dressed. Nothing is more gross than waking up sweating, and realistically they’re all going to feel pretty gross waking up anyway. He’d be a shitty friend if he let multiple layers contribute to that problem.

Mikey’s hoodie is fairly easy to get off. The zipper down the front doesn’t take more than a second to take down, and his arms slide out of the loose sleeves with only a few manoeuvres. It thuds when he tosses it to the floor. Frank hopes the noise wasn’t caused by a now cracked cell phone. He doesn’t pick it back up to look though. If he doesn’t look he won’t be lying if he says he doesn’t know how it happened. The theory is proven wrong anyway, after Frank unzips his jeans and starts to tug them off. The bulge in Mikey’s pocket is obviously his cell.

Frank considers his t-shirt and underwear for a moment before leaving them on. Taking them off would be too close to taking advantage. That’s not the kind of person Frank wants to be. Mikey should be cool enough in just a shirt to sleep comfortably.

What Frank really needs to figure out is what he’s going to do now. At this point he should probably just pull an all-nighter. He’ll only get four hours of sleep at most, and naps usually make him feel worse than not sleeping. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. The best way to keep himself awake is is take Mikey’s laptop and play something engaging, like Diablo or Starcraft. Mikey won’t care are long as he makes up his own character. Playing one Mikey’s already created will mess with the stats and probably get him hit.

On the way out of the room Frank accidentally kicks the thudding hoodie and his curiosity piques. He picks it up by the hood, and pats it down. In the left overlarge pocket is a flask. From the shake of it it’s only got a shot or two left. Pointless to save for some time in the future, really. Before he can think of the reasons not to, Frank down it in a few nasty swallows.

Frank makes himself comfortable in the living room, shucking himself out of his dirty jeans so he can put a crocheted blanket over his legs. Once he’s settled he turns Mikey’s laptop. It’s really cool how all his pinned tabs sign in automatically. Frank can’t let the computer he and his mom share do that, she’d spy in a second. Mikey’s got a surprising amount of accounts, half to websites Frank’s never even heard of. He trolls them all, leaving hilarious comments on a few of the forums, and a ton of Likes on Facebook. Mikey needs to show more enthusiasm.

Eventually commenting loses its appeal. Rather than load a game Frank finds himself going through Mikey’s horribly organised files. Ray would probably cry, but that’s okay because Ray is sleeping so he doesn’t have to suffer, and to Frank it seems sort of like an online adventure. He is the Indiana Jones of a convoluted directory.

Somewhere on this laptop is Mikey’s porn, sitting there like the holy grail. Frank will find it, and then he can see what Mikey likes. And once he knows, he can imagine Mikey liking it while he jerks off. It’s wrong, but less wrong than groping him in his sleep. Frank wouldn’t be that bad of a person.

Before he finds the porn, he finds a folder of what are obviously all Mikey’s camp pictures. There’s more than Frank thought there would be. Mikey got over his MySpace cam whore phase really quickly, while they were still in junior high. His Facebook has some pictures, but they’re mostly ones Frank or Ray have taken. Clicking through the five hundred in the Windows Photo Viewer Frank gets the impression it’s probably the same this time. At least half of the pictures he sees are Mikey with other people, surprise pictures that catch him with an actual expression.

A few faces come up over and over again. Patrick, three impossibly tall black guys, a short guy with tattoos, a white girl with tattoos and the kind of ratty hair it takes hours to perfect. The more Frank clicks the more pissed off he is that Mikey didn’t tell him about any of them. They clearly never left each other’s sight for a solid month, that’s the kind of thing that builds great in-jokes and adventures. Mikey’s got twenty eight days of stories, and he didn’t tell Frank any of them. It’s almost worse than not being told about Pete. What did Mikey think he was gonna do, yell at him for having temporary new best friends? Yeah, he wants to yell at him now, but that’s only because he wasn’t _told_.

Then Frank hits picture 189. It’s one of the first MySpace angle ones. The angle makes the sunlight dim behind them, but it’s bright enough to see Mikey and the boy with tattoos kissing. So that’s what Pete looks like.

The pictures after that change, subtly. In each group picture it’s Mikey, Pete, and others close beside them, but not quite existing in each other’s space the way Mikey and Pete do. There pictures of Mikey’s feet in the grass, of rumpled bunkbed sheets, of Pete’s stomach with swim trunks riding low. He’s got a tattoo there too, some weird looking fusion of a bat and a heart.

Frank keeps hearing Mikey’s words from last week. Great summer friend. Except Pete probably doesn’t even know Mikey thought so, because he hasn’t posted and captioned any of these happy pictures. No, Frank _knows_ Pete doesn’t know, because Patrick as much as told him Pete felt like Mikey moved on. It’s just not fair to Pete. A boy that looks that thrilled to be in love doesn’t deserve to be cut off with nothing.

Thankfully, Facebook has a bulk uploader, so he doesn’t have to open each picture individually. He doesn’t really have the dexterity for that right now.

***

Frank wakes to Mrs Way shaking him. He must have fallen asleep sitting up. His head is at a horrible angle and the laptop is hot against his thigh, and that’s probably only the beginning of the pain today is going to bring.

It feels like someone vomited in his mouth. It takes his fried brain a minute to deduce it was probably him. He doesn’t remember much past roleplaying 28 Days Later. With the four of them it was just about perfect. He doesn’t remember puking but logic dictates that for two full days to be a blur, he definitely drank enough to puke. He’d like to rinse his mouth out, but he feels so nauseous he’s sure the next thing to touch his tongue will be puked out, even if it’s just water to rinse the toothpaste froth post brushing.

“Good. You’re awake.” Frank’s always heard that hangovers come with pounding headaches, but Mrs Way’s shouting is no more painful than normal. “Frank, tomorrow me and Mikey are going to have a talk about responsible behaviour. And I’m sure you and your mom will too.” Frank’s equally sure, Mrs Way just has more glee at the idea than he does. “But today it’s Mikey’s sixteenth, and we expect you there.”

Frank can’t remember exactly when he started getting invited to family only parties. Some time after puberty, he thinks. Some time after he and Mikey came out in the same week, and Gerard let himself get caught taking his mom’s fur coat to spread the awkwardness a little. Mr and Mrs Way probably think he’s going to marry one of their two sons, never mind that Gerard is straight and Mikey is completely off limits.

She leaves, and Frank is faced with the dilemma of standing up. Hopefully movement won’t be too much for his stomach. Glancing down shows he’s wearing his spare clothes, another sign that he puked at some point. God only knows what he did with the dirty clothes though. They’re probably still in some frat in Pennsylvania. If they even went to a frat party. Frank’s really not sure.

It kills to be passing through Mikey’s birthday kitchen. Mr Way has cooked five different kinds of pancakes. Normally it would be a situation of eat flour, dairy, and sugar now, and worry about digestive consequences later, but today he wouldn’t attempt a bite if someone paid him. But he wants a ride more than he’s ever wanted a ride before, so Frank slumps to one of the old maple chairs and waits with his head against the cool wood for Mikey to be done eating. The little asshole doesn’t have a hangover at all.

***

By final bell all Frank wants to do is go home and pass out. Unfortunately that’s not really an option. The Ways eat early, around half past five. When travel time from school to home and home to Mikey’s is totalled up it’s really not worth the effort. Besides, spending more time with Mikey is always a plus. After cooking they stand together at the edge of the bus loop and wait for a car they recognise. Unlike Gerard Way’s shuttle, this time they both sit in the back of Mrs Way’s shuttle. Frank regrets the seat choice a bit once it’s made. Mikey intensely needs to shower and with a seatbelt tying Frank to the experience it’s prevalent in his head. But he’s become used to the idea of his best friend being the stinky kid in the years since puberty, and even the worst miasma can become acclimated to with a few deep breaths.

Gerard’s car is still in the driveway. It makes sense that he’d stay for the family party. There are a few aunts that would accuse him of bringing shame to the family if he didn’t. With the little energy Frank has he grabs a snack and goes down the stairs, Mikey following him with two cans of Tahiti Treat. Frank appreciates the gesture. Gerard and Ray are adults now, they can fend for themselves. Except Ray isn’t in Gerard’s bedroom with him. Frank thought he would be. He and Mikey tried to piece the weekend together based on each of their fragments, and the pictures in their phones. Frank remembers he and Ray heaving Gerard and Mikey into the back seat last night.

“Where’s Ray?”

Gerard explains “he took the Greyhound back. He drove us home in my car, remember?”

Frank winces. That’s completely true. How drunk was he last night that he didn’t realise what Ray was really offering “Shit, that must have been a few bucks.”

“I’ll give him some of my birthday money.”

That solved, Frank rips open the bag of chips and Mikey cracks the sodas. As always, the addition of food when he’s tired only makes him exhausted. Or maybe it’s the sugar he shouldn’t really have. Either way it’s not long before Frank’s yawning. “I need to powernap until the relatives get here. Which one of you plans on making less noise?”

“Sketching,” Gerard waves the book in his lap.

“Dunno. Downloading new bands? Trolling Youtube?”

With that simple answer Frank slips off his jeans crawls under the section of Gerard’s blankets that Mikey’s not weighing down. They smell like concentrated Gerard, but it’s not too overwhelming to sleep in.

He wakes what seems an instant later to something landing on the middle of his stomach. He blearily opens an eye, which is cue for Mikey to start shouting.

“If you’re going to meddle, at least meddle under your own goddamn name! Fuck!” Frank struggles to open his other eye, pretty sure this conversation is important.

“What did I-” his eyes focus, and he realises the heavy object on his stomach is a laptop. A laptop open to a Facebook account. An account that has a photo album of pictures loaded. The visual jogs his memory and Frank hazily remembers part of last night.

“You fucking put them on Facebook!”

“Of course I put them on Facebook. That’s where pictures of your friends go, and they were your friends.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know their names!”

“I know that they were in most of your pictures. I know that after the kissing picture, Pete was in every single picture you were in.” Frank hears Gerard gasp _Mikey_ , so at least Mikey hasn’t just been keeping secrets from him. “Those pictures should be on Facebook. Facebook is for friends.”

“He’s not my fucking friend. And maybe you aren’t either. Get the hell out Frank.”

“Seriously?”

Mikey’s face is incredibly serious. “Leave or I’ll probably hit you or something. Just fucking go.”

It’s not as much that Frank is afraid of the kind of the wallop behind Mikey’s punch. It’s more about how much harder it’ll be to make up if things turn violent.

Of course because life is difficult like that, Mrs Way catches him on his way out. She worms her way between two cousins and grabs his arm. “Where are you going, Frank?”

“Uh.”

“You know you don’t have to smoke outside. Siddown.” Frank sits at the kitchen table and takes the cigarette that Mikey’s mom gives him. “Don’t tell Gerard I gave you one, he’ll get mad. I always made him pay me to give him some. Hell, don’t go get him until you’re done it.”

She expects him to go fetch her sons so the party can start. She’ll obviously be upset if he leaves. Mikey will be upset if he doesn’t. Trying to decide which Way to obey is like the definition of being caught between a rock and a hard place. In the end -which in this case is about fifteen awkward minutes- Frank has to go with Mikey’s wishes. They can hang out later, once Mikey realises he did it to help.

The first thing Frank does when he gets home is log on to his Facebook. He doesn’t even pretend to be casual, he goes directly to Mikey’s wall. Mikey’s status is _looking at the photo album my friend uploaded while I was sleeping_. Frank’s still not in the mood for an apology. He replies _picked a great selection huh?_

To prevent himself from refreshing constantly, something which will drive him insane because Mikey’s with his relatives right now and probably won’t go back to Facebook until they all go home, he logs out, and leaves the computer to attempt homework. Stretched out on his bed, he gets all of two paragraphs read before he falls asleep, still fully dressed. He wakes up at midnight, heats up some leftovers, and goes back to bed. The way he figures it, he’ll need to have his strength when he has to compromise between pride and friendship tomorrow.

***

Everyone has a different threshold for the silent treatment. Frank’s turns out to be really low. He can’t even manage a full day before he’s backing down and typing **sorry** in Gchat with Mikey.

**Mikey: you suck**

**Me: SORRY!**

**Mikey: you’re only sorry because I’m not talking to you**

That is...almost entirely true. But Frank’s not going to say that. **Me: I’m sorry I used your account**

**Mikey: it’s not that**

**Me: what?**

**Mikey: i just really don’t fucking appreciate you leading him on. he thought that was me. he thinks i still like him.**

Frank notices Mikey’s no longer denying that Pete looks at his profile, but decides now isn’t the best time to comment on that.

**Me: but your status let him know it wasn’t. and then i commented too.**

**Mikey: he takes shit to heat**

**Mikey: *heart**

**Me: i’m sorry. really**

**Mikey: just don’t mess around with him anymore.**

**Me: i wont**. It’s not like he did that to make Pete upset. Frank’s reasoning is fuzzy under the blanket of alcohol, but he’s sure he didn’t upload those pictures to mess with Pete. On the contrary, he was probably trying to make Pete happy by letting him know Mikey cared enough to save the pictures.

With Mikey and Gmail in one tab, Frank opens a few more. Twitter, so he can see what celebrities have done what. Pandora, to listen to a radio station of his own design. And of course, Facebook. He’s got two friend requests. One is old, that girl from third grade is never going to stop trying to friend him, no matter how many times he rejects the request. The other is new since yesterday. Pete Wentz wants to be his friend. Frank winces, but adds him. Whatever abuse he wants to throw at him, Frank will take it. It’s been made perfectly clear he’s an asshole that hurt when he was trying to help.

Frank’s still clicking through Pete’s timeline a minute later Pete shows up in the bottom right as a Facebook chat. At least he can get this over with quickly. It’s even more shitty now that he knows the basics about Pete. From the type of stuff he’s posted, Frank can understand why Mikey spent every moment of a month with him. Pete seems cool, a better friend than enemy.

**hey frank i wannta meet up face to face my address is 48 larksper bay**

Yeah, no. That’s not gonna happen. Frank’s not going to go over to the house of someone who Frank has learned from collective conversations is obsessive, over-emotional, and currently pissed off at him. **i’m not an idiot. i’ve seen pictures of you. i’ve posted them. i’m gonna pass**

**Not evryone with tatoos has weapons. btu if you don’t want to come to my house meet mee at the mall. witnesses & all that.**

**K.** After all, the worst Pete can do in public place is hit him. Frank can tolerate one punch if it makes someone he’s accidentally hurt feel better.

**how long?**

**depends on if i can borrow the car**

**in front of the hot topic. ill be ther when you get there**

Frank is freely given the car, and he’s there in less than twenty. Pete’s looking through the glass at the wall of t-shirts. Frank stands back for a second, squinting at him, then realises he’s being ridiculous. If Pete _did_ have a weapon, it wouldn’t be visible. Frank just has to trust that Mikey wouldn’t fall in love with someone that crazy.

“You didn’t call me here to talk about Avenged Sevenfold.”

“No. You know why Mikey broke up with me?”

“It was the end of summer.”

“That was a rhetorical. But no, it wasn’t that. It was ‘cause we couldn’t take our pants off.”

“Uh.”

“Until Mikey I considered myself gay above the waist. Good for making out, and not much else. But then I met Mikey and I graduated a bit, to whatever could be reached with pants still on. But I couldn’t blow or fuck in either direction. Not like you.”

Frank shakes his head. “Not with Mikey. Exes, yeah. But not with Mikey. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him naked.”

“But you want to. It’s okay. I want to too. That’s why I need you to fuck me in the ass.”

“What?”

“Fuck me. In the ass.” Pete repeats himself louder. Frank can’t help but look around them. About three feet away is a mom with a stroller. That’s probably not going to stop him from continuing to be obscene though.

“Why?” There’s some kind of logic leap here that Pete made that he obviously didn’t.

“I want to do it with a guy that won't care if I takes a bit to get used to it, and won't think it has something to do with our relationship. The first clause takes away basically every random hook-up, no one that just wants to come is going to sit around while I have a panic attack. And the second clause takes away an actual boyfriend.”

“Ask Patrick.” Pete might not have a lot of friends to have benefits with, but if Patrick is willing to stay awake for days on end to listen to Pete spaz, surely he’s willing to stick his dick somewhere it wouldn’t normally go.

Pete rolls his eyes at Frank’s advice. “Right, because I don't love him as much as I love Mikey, and things won't get equally awkward. I need a stranger I can trust, and you’re the only one that fits.”

Frank’s first emotion is honour. Which is really fucking weird, and his brain or heart or whatever needs to stop that right now.

“Look, I can pay you.”

“I am _not_ a hooker.” If he’s gonna do this, it’s not going to be because he’ll get rich from it.

“So then I won’t pay you. Consider it the first favour of a lifetime friendship, something we’ll look back on fondly when we’re eighty. Fuck, I don’t care how you want to justify it. Just fuck me in the ass.”

Frank should tell Pete Mikey’s over him, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s cruel. But there’s something equally wrong about doing this if it’s for the sole purpose of luring back Mikey. He looks at the belts through the window so his face doesn’t betray anything and asks “what if I’m right, and it was just because it was a summer fling?”

“You’re not. But if you were, then whatever. At least next time I can actually have a boyfriend and like it. Not spend half the time worrying about when he’d want more.”

Pete sounds sure. Frank hasn’t had sex since he broke up with Bob, unless he did last weekend and completely doesn’t remember it. That’s unlikely. He’s a long-time lover, not a one-time fucker. This is a unique situation though, and Frank’s dick wants him to say yes as much as his empathy does.

“I have no idea where Larksper is, and I drove here, so I guess I’ll just follow you home?”

“Good idea. Fucking in the bathroom would be awkward.”

Pete parks in the garage, leaving Frank to get as close to the side of the back lane as he can. He locks the car and joins Pete, who’s waiting at the door connecting the garage to the house. They’re halfway up the stairs before it occurs to Frank to ask “shouldn’t I go introduce myself to your parents or something?”

“You can if you really want to,” Pete answers, shrugging. “They won’t care. They’ve already done their parental duty this trimester, sending me to camp. Their next round of interest should come some time in October.”

Frank decides to not turn around and go back downstairs. That statement has a whole mess of things Frank doesn’t think he’s capable of navigating so early in a friendship.

Pete’s walls are covered in posters, not that Frank gets much of a chance to scope them out. As soon as the bedroom door is closed, Pete pushes him against the thin veneer. They’re the same height but Pete’s taking control, and Frank doesn’t mind letting him. First times are always a kind of freaky idea, even when someone doesn’t have a mental block about penetration. Frank’s willing to play this however Pete wants. Besides, it’s not like it’s a hardship to be pressed between warm flesh and cold wood. He parts his lips at Pete’s insistent tongue, and enjoys every instant of Pete’s kiss. No wonder he was gay above the waist, if this is how he kisses guys. Frank keeps his lips on Pete’s until he’s lightheaded, then breaks away for breath. Pete doesn’t take that as a hint, he only moves from lips to jaw then neck.

“Ohhh,” Frank groans.

“Yeah?” Pete doesn’t wait for confirmation, just goes back to sucking the same patch of his neck. Frank bucks forward, but there’s too much air between them for the move to get him any satisfaction. It’s automatic to bring his leg up and curl it around Pete’s hip, forcing him closer. Pete’s as hard as he is, his erection more noticeable inside his tighter jeans.

Frank loses track of time after that. All that matters is the sharp biting pain in his neck that goes directly to his cock, and that there’s a surface for rutting against. Pete smells good, like oranges, not any normal manly scent. It suits him, it adds an almost solid edge to the experience.

It’s a sudden and cold shock when Pete pulls away. Frank tries to keep him in place with leg and hands, but Pete’s not having it. Without the all encompassing stimulation he’s suddenly embarrassed of how turned on he is. In the past make outs never left him close to coming in his damn jeans.

“Remember what you’re here for.” It could be a question or a statement, Frank can’t tell.

Out of Frank’s grasp, Pete strips with no attempt at showmanship. When he’s nude he throws himself onto his bed, face down. Frank checks out his ass before he follows suit. He’s got a nice ass. It’s not a hypothetical anymore, not a possibility talked about in public beside pearl clutching mothers. Frank wants to fuck him now. He wants to fuck that ass as much as he’s ever wanted Bob or Mikey. He really wants it, so much that he reaches down for a second to grab himself just a hair too tight. If he did come he’d be ready to go again in ten minutes, he’s a healthy teenager. But the only thing more embarrassing than coming in his jeans from making out is coming without being touched because he’s seeing a hot naked guy.

His eyes start to wander as Frank gives himself a minute to settle by undoing his jeans extremely slowly. On the first pass all he sees are planes of skin he wants to come on. The second pass though, Frank notices something that basically douses him in ice water. Pete’s hands are clenched. Not like ‘I’m so turned on I’m going to combust, curling my fingers is the only semblance of self control I have’ clenched hands, but ‘this is gonna suck, but it should be over soon’ clenched hands.

It kills Frank to say it, but he has to. If he didn’t, he’d hate himself later. “It doesn’t really seem like you want this.”

Pete doesn’t look up, just speaks directly into the pillow. “Just do it. Just fuck me.”

Frank doesn’t expect romance in his relationships. Bob wasn’t a romantic, not even deep down under his hard exterior. Not every burnt marshmallow has a squishy centre, some just caramelise and stay hard throughout. That doesn’t mean they’re not enjoyable. There was no romance implied in Pete’s offer, and Frank’s okay with that. Still, there’s a difference between casual and clinical. Or even worse, harsh. Frank doesn’t want to be something Pete has to get over with.

“I can’t just do it. It’ll hurt.”

“I’ve gotten a toothbrush holder in there. Just go for it.”

In another tone Frank would find that mind blowingly hot. He’s got a object insertion kink big enough that he’d even look at het porn if there wasn’t any gay content. Pete’s tone isn’t sexy, or bragging. It’s hurried, like each second Frank is taking is more pressure to not chicken out. Frank’s not all that interested in having sex as a dare.

“Roll over onto your back.”

Pete does, and the new position shows Pete’s barely hard. It’s a bummer, but not all that surprising. The sight makes Frank all the more determined to find a way that they can both enjoy it. He sits on the end of the bed and takes Pete’s cock in hand. It’s one of the better ones he’s seen. Not demoralisingly huge, like most porn seems to feature. Just right.

“I’m already okay with handies.”

Frank rolls his eyes, not that Pete can see it with his eyes screwed up tight. “Shut up and take it.”

“But-”

“You asked me to fuck you, which means I get input. So shut up. And take it.”

Thankfully Pete can see the logic in that. He shuts up, which means that Frank can get back to the important part; making Pete forget everything except the hand curled around his dick. It’s been awhile since Frank’s had the opportunity to jerk someone off, but it’s not something you forget. Making Pete react is a matter of pride. The slow jerks that Bob liked best don’t have much effect, so he quickens his strokes. Only once Pete’s thrusting into the air does he stretch to the nightstand and grab the bottle of lube. It’s half full, Pete’s obviously been practicing alone for a while. Frank slips a finger inside him on the downstroke, hoping Pete will allow it. Pete tenses until Frank swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, and then he just arches.

Frank does it twice more. It’s a little manipulative, maybe. But manipulating his body is better than fucking with his head, and Frank’s pretty damn positive a uncaring unaroused fuck would just make things worse for Pete.

“Awww, fuck, aww fuck. Frank! Fuck!”

Pete’s close to coming, and it’s the best chance he’s gonna get to do it. Frank adjusts until he’s in his knees between Pete’s legs. He lines himself against Pete and keeps stroking his hand as fast as he can. Pete arches when he comes, heels and shoulders the only thing touching the bed. It’s when Pete slumps that Frank swiftly pulls out his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock. He and Bob always went boneless after orgasm, every muscle loose. Pete doesn’t have the will to tense at Frank pushing inside.

“You tricky bas-astard,” Pete’s voice hitches as Frank finds his prostate half by accident.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Pete answers. “People that can evade my head bullshit are very important in my life.”

“Good. I wasn’t really.” Might as well be honest, if Pete doesn’t mind.

Guessing that the same methodology will work for fucking, Frank tries to keep his thrusts fast and shallow. It’s hard to keep a rhythm, every time he does something Pete likes Pete’ll buck up and Frank has to quickly adjust so he doesn’t accidentally pull out.

“You- ungh- you wanna come a- uhh- a second time?” Frank’s close, and Pete’s only just starting to get hard again.

“Ha ahhh-as anyone ever said no?”

Frank realises that was probably a stupid question, just like hoping for a no was a stupid hope. He’s just going to have to hold out. A harder proposition than it sounds, when Pete’s ass is squeezing him like a warm vise.

Frank puts his hand back on Pete’s cock, but a particularly hard thrust nearly topples him. He puts his arm back in a weight supporting position with a look of apology. Pete’s eyes are open now, whether he’s focusing on anything is a different question. “Sorry,” he says between pants, “can you, do, yourself?”

Pete grabs his cock nearly before Frank is finished asking. Frank’s gaze goes back and forth between Pete’s face and his hand stripping his cock until the moment Pete comes. Pete arches high enough that he slips almost completely out, only the head of his cock still inside. Pete’s asshole clenches around the most sensitive part of his dick, and that’s when Frank loses it. He comes, toes curling, teeth biting the insides of his cheeks.

He and Bob used to have a fairly short afterglow. Regardless of who’s back was on the mattress, after they were done Frank would manage to lay completely on top of Bob like a short sweaty blanket. Bob would allow it until Frank would start playing with his chest hair, and then Bob would shove him off with a few grumbled words. Frank doesn’t do that this time. Pete seemed pretty okay with everything before and during, but if a big gay freak out or big no longer a virgin freakout is going to happen now, Frank doesn’t want Pete to feel pinned down. Instead he separates his knees a bit more so when he slumps his ass can touch blanket instead of his heels. He keeps a hand on Pete’s ankle, but doesn’t crowd him more than that.

“I think I have to shit.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal,” he answers. Or at least it was for him and Bob, whoever bottomed. If it is weird, it’s not weird enough to panic about.

Pete stands and scuttles out of his room completely naked. Frank hesitates for a second before starting to gather his clothes. He might get kicked out, or they might hang out for a bit, but he should be dressed for either of those things.

“That wasn’t horrible at all,” Pete says when he comes in a few minutes. His torso and genitals are shiny-wet, Frank would guess he wiped up their come.

“Good. It’s not supposed to be.”

“I think I could probably do it with a boyfriend now.” Pete grabs his underwear, but doesn’t put them on yet. “I hope it’s Mikey.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s not sure how much he means it. For Pete, he does. For Mikey he does. But he’s liked Mikey forever.

“You wanna play Left 4 Dead? My sister will probably want in too, but we just rotate at checkpoints.”

“Yeah. For a bit, I guess.”

Playing the No Mercy campaign is nicely distracting. It’s hard to think about other things when a Boomer zombie is about to vomit on him to blind him and attract more zombies with the smell of his vomit. It’s when he has to hand off the controller to Pete’s sister that his head gets all messed up. Frank doesn’t know what to feel more guilty about; when was thinking about Mikey during sex with Pete, or when he wasn’t. He would hate to believe he’s so easily swayed that one orgasm causes him to get over Mikey. It can’t be true. If it was, what about Bob? Dating and having sex with Bob didn’t make Frank forget about Mikey, just minimized it.

It’s so confusing that once he gets home he doesn’t get out of his parked car. Instead he stays in the driver’s seat and texts Mikey **want to play video games**. It’s ten and his mom will probably start to wonder where he is, but Frank needs to test himself.

**loading up Mario as I type**

He nearly sighs with relief when he sees Mikey in the shitty dim yellow porchlight and wants to kiss him. He has to immediately suppress that, of course. Frank hasn’t had a crush for three years and stayed quiet to slip now. But the fact that he has still something to suppress makes him feel a lot better about himself.

***

There’s a foot slamming into his shin, and Frank knows without having to turn around. He does though, just for confirmation. Patrick doesn’t say anything once they have eye contact, just kicks him a second time. Frank waits for an unfair declaration, but Patrick kicks him a third time.

“ _What_ , for fucksakes? Say something. If you’re just gonna kick me, I’m leaving.”

“I’m trying to think of what to say, asshat!”

“Well I guess that’s a start.” When Patrick’s bitching verbally he’s not sulking physically.

“I came up with a lot of things last night. I haven’t been to sleep yet. Can you guess why?”

Frank smirks. “No sheep available to jump over fences?”

“Let me rephrase. I’ve been too busy to sleep since about nine forty five. Any guesses why?”

How is he supposed to answer that? The why is obvious, but it’s equally obvious Patrick just wants to rant. Frank settles for fixing one of his mini posters. The tape is already curling on the edge, and Frank tries not for the first time to push it smoothly to the metal. Soon he’ll need to rip the whole thing down, or tape a new printoff on top of it, but for now he’ll be happy with fiddling.

“I can’t believe you took advantage of him like that.”

That deserves a comment. “Excuse me? He contacted me!”

“You didn’t have to reply to him.”

Frank’s about to point out that in that case Patrick would be just as mad Frank ignored Pete when it hits him. The truth is obvious, really. “You’re jealous.”

“Eat shit.”

“No, you are. You wish it was you. I think he wanted that too.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. But he didn’t think he was good enough for you.” Or at least that’s what Frank took from all Pete’s talk of relationships too important to spoil with bad sex.

For a moment Frank thinks Patrick is going to hit him. Or at the very least, kick him again. Patrick doesn’t do either. He just turns and walks away like he’s a powerwalker on a mission. He doesn’t speak a word as he’s walking away, not even a hearty _fuck you_. The first response Frank hears is three hours later, when Patrick catches him on the way to the cafeteria. “Hey. We need to talk.”

“Didn’t feel like tapping out Morse Code on my leg?” It’s a valid question in Frank’s mind. This is the first time Patrick’s come close to him without kicking him.

“Come with me for-”

“If you want to live!” Frank interrupts. He can’t help it. But he goes with Patrick, so he doesn’t get full asshole points.

Frank’s seen the band room, of course. He took it for a semester, one of the few courses you could take all eight semesters and get eight credits for. As a naive junior high schooler he’d thought it would be an hour of jam session a day. It wasn’t. He couldn’t even play an electric guitar, the school band was acoustic only. He took it long enough to know the band room doors are locked over the lunch hour. And yet, he and Patrick are standing in front of them, and Patrick is jiggling a handle and throwing his weight against the door. He must hit some sort of sweet spot, because one of the double doors swing open.

“Are we supposed to be breaking in at lunch? And okay, the way I had to phrase it ‘breaking in’ kind of points to no, and I don’t want to be suspended. My mom would slaughter me, and I just rose from the dead after a drunken roadtrip, so-”

“Frank, how many kids you think are in band and want to spend even more free time practicing? Not even the teacher wants to do this on his free time. No one will catch us. Me and Pete are the only ones ever here. He likes listening to me play.”

Frank slings his backpack to the floor and starts examining the bulletin board as Patrick closes the door behind them. In two years it hasn’t changed, still the same old mess of concert flyers ranging from handdrawn to photocopied until almost solid blackness, to prettily laminated. Everyone in band class has a favourite band they want to pimp, as enthusiastic about basement shows as the drama kids are with flyers of three night productions in the back of retail outlets.

When it seems like Patrick’s never going to start whatever conversation had him dragging him out of public ears, Frank prompts him. “If you didn’t kick me, you must not be mad at me.”

“I’m always mad at you,” he replies, but there’s no heat in the words.

“You’re not mad at all. Why not? Did you declare your jealous love to Pete? Did he swoon?”

In an instant Frank’s pinned against the wall. A dozen pushpins poke against his back and he takes a second to hope he’s not wrinkling any of the papers. Even if he doesn’t know the bands advertised that doesn’t mean he should disrespect them and their fans. He’s not concerned about the arms trapping him. Bob shoved him on a near constant basis. It’s irritated affection, is what it is. If Bob or Patrick ever scared him with their little acts of violence, if Frank ever interpreted it as actual violence, he wouldn’t hesitate to shove back. But it’s not, so he doesn’t.

“No. He didn’t,” Patrick says right into his face. “You know what he said?”

Frank’s a lot of things. A telepath isn’t one of them. “No. But according to you, he probably told you fifteen times.”

Again to Frank’s surprise, Patrick deviates from their normal interaction method. He laughs. Patrick’s so close Frank can feel his belly ripple. It’s weird, but kind of nice. “Yeah, that about sums it up. He said that I should go have sex with another guy.”

“What? Why?”

“Because, and this is the part he repeated in a dozen slightly modified sentences, he doesn’t want me to be Petesexual. I should check that I’m gay or bi with another guy, so I don’t suddenly regret it later when we broke up.”

“So did you kick him, or did you think he had a point?” Frank has his guess, considering where they are, but he wants to hear it from Patrick.

“I’m capable of both thinking he’s a moron and agreeing with him. If you knew him you’d get it.”

Frank’s known Pete maybe three hours, all told. He already gets it. Pete’s got this kind of aggravating bald honesty about him. Right now he cares less about Pete’s various personality traits, and more about the position he’s in, and what it insinuates. “So you going to ask me if I’m interested, or are you gonna just pin me until the after school choir comes in?”

“Are you interested?”

Frank’s not sure why he is. Maybe Mikey’s right and Patrick just reminds him of Bob. Except that’s kind of creepy, only fooling around with a guy because he’s like your ex. And it’s not like Frank ever really regretted breaking up with him. It probably saved their friendship, such as it was. “I’m not into BDSM. No problem for anyone that wants to, but they’re not me. So no kicking or otherwise bruising during sex. And use a condom.”

“I don’t have a-”

“Nurse’s office.”

“I don’t have buttfucking supplies, and I’m not getting them right now. Undo your belt.”

“A handjob?”

Patrick scowls. It’s kind of cute, a thought that both horrifies him the instant after he has it, and one which he must never repeat to Patrick. “Do _not_ pull a Pete and decide that those don’t count for anything.”

“Dude, no, no.” Frank wriggles his hands between them as Patrick shows no indication of taking a step back, and pulls the studded not-leather from the elaborate skeleton buckle. “Go for it, handies are great.”

Having sex at school is quite possibly the kinkiest thing he’s ever done. Every guy here -except for the few innocent Catholics- has jerked off in a bathroom stall at least once. Unfortunate erections have to be taken care of somehow, after all. However there is a huge difference between a furtive jerk off and a cute boy’s body against his, hand on his cock.

After he comes, Frank returns the favour. He does his best work when he’s got a bit of room to move, but Patrick shows no interest in taking a step back. His face is mashed against Frank’s shoulder, open mouth staining a wet circle through his t-shirt. Despite the proximity Frank doesn’t hear a single moan, even muffled on his shoulder. Frank’s not talkative during sex, but he knows he groans a bit. Patrick is dead silent. All his reaction shows through the comestained hands clutching his ass. Patrick’s fingers are trembling, Frank can feel it with every stroke of his confined hand.

Patrick gets the kleenex box on top of the piano and pulls several out in rapid succession to hand him. Frank takes care of his hands and his spent cock before tucking himself back in. He trusts the spot on his shirt to dry, but he’s got no idea what the state of the back of his jeans are. When Patrick looks up Frank turns and bends over a bit. “Any smears?”

“None I can see.”

It’s not the most reassuring comment he could have made, but it’ll have to do.

“So what do you think? Petesexual, or not?”

“Well, I’ve never once been attracted to a girl in my life. You know, as my having sex with guys would indicate. But now I have something to tell Pete.”

Frank doesn’t feel used, exactly. He had plenty of opportunity to say no, and it never crossed his mind. He’s just confused, and more than a bit curious. “Why didn’t you tell Pete about the other guys?”

“He’d get all hurt if he thought I didn’t tell him everything, even if it was just to keep him sane. I couldn’t tell him, he would have-” Patrick cuts himself off, then blatantly changes the conversation. “Going to the caf now?”

He could. If he did though, Mikey would ask where he’d been. Then Frank would have to explain that even though he promised to not contact Mikey’s summer friends again, he was actually busy having sex with one of them. “Play me something,” he replies instead, gesturing around the room. “Whatever one you know how to play.”

“I know how to play half of them. I’m a prodigy. And if I’m doing that, I might as well text Pete.”

“Go for it. I like him.” And he does, Frank realises. If he has to lie to Mikey so he can hang out with Pete again, he just might.

***

“Hey, Frank.”

“And again, you don’t kick me.” Frank grins, trying to put as much _aw shucks!_ into it as he can. “A boy could start to think you liked him.” 

It’s sort of a joke, but sort of not. Patrick’s been meeting Frank at his locker every morning with a light kick hello then ten minutes of chatting. The only other time Patrick hasn’t kicked him is when they had sex.

“About that. Are you free to talk after school?”

“You can’t ‘talk’ now?” The band room probably isn’t free, but they can always just use a bathroom stall. Nothing like mutual orgasms to wake you up in the morning.

Patrick shakes his head. “Pete could talk to you now, but I can’t. I have shame, as much as he tells me it’s a useless emotion. Whatever, he has it too. His just doesn’t center around public decency.”

Frank only needs to talk about anal sex in a mall once before he understands that. Apparently Patrick means actual talking. It’s not his forte, but he’ll try. “Yeah. You can meet me here again.”

***

It’s one of the rare days Mikey follows Frank to his locker after cooking class. Normally they separate just outside the door, Mikey and Jamia going down the hall in the direction that’s closer to the stairs, Frank going the other way to the science hallway. Unless he and Mikey are planning on leaving together and hanging out, there’s not really any point in lingering when they’ll just be talking online all night. Today it’s different. The discussion they’re having about Kraftwerk is too heated to wait a hour to conclude online.

Patrick’s leaning against the metal door of Frank’s locker, like he promised, like Frank requested then completely forgot about. Frank realises about a minute too late that this could get really awkward really quickly if Patrick’s about to give Mikey a kick for all the late nights the way he did Frank.

“Patrick?”

“Hey Mikeyway. It’s been a while.”

Frank would have thought it was just a greeting, but Mikey reposts with ‘since I could say I wasn’t addicted’ and then Patrick comes back with ‘been awhile since I could say I love myself as well’. Clearly it’s a in-joke.

“I actually need to talk to Frank for a minute though.”

Frank shrugs at Mikey like he has no idea what this is about. It’s only half a lie. “Text you later?”

“Sounds good,” Mikey replies with a slight shrug of his own.

After getting out the stuff he’ll need if he feels like doing homework -the answer is always no, but some days you have to rise above that feeling and actually get something done- Frank slips the lock on, twirls it a few times and leaves it on a random number for misdirection, then follows Patrick outside. Pete’s waiting in his car. Frank knows without asking that he’s the backseat. When you have a friendship as long as Pete and Patrick have, no one else is ever shotgun. Considering the state of Pete’s room the one time he was inside it, Frank’s surprised at how clean the car is. He doesn’t even have to push anything to the side to get the seatbelt in the buckle.

“So we’re talking?” He has to pitch his voice a little higher to be heard over the shoddy muffler.

“We’ve been arguing for a week. A full week. Using hours that most people wouldn’t normally use as conversation hours, of course.”

“My bad.” Pete brushes off Patrick’s following glare like he doesn’t even see it.

“Basically it boils down to are you interested in alternate versions of relationships?”

Frank needs a little less boiling to basics. He can’t figure out the specifics of what they want. “What?”

“You know. When A dates B and B dates C and C dates A. Has it ever occurred to you? Would you want something like that? You know, with us, I mean.”

“I’ve never really thought about it?” It comes out sounding like a question, an involuntary tone that kind of makes Frank mad at himself. This is obviously a serious question for them. Frank’s spent hours online talking to Pete, and good chunks in the morning with Patrick. Even if the idea has never occurred to him, Frank doesn’t want it to sound like he thinks they’re insane for asking.

Pete makes a sudden hard left. Patrick asks, a hint of concern creeping into his voice, “where are you going?”

“Dropping him off so he can think.”

“You don’t know where he lives.”

Patrick’s right, but that’s not the point. “I live in the direction we were going, but you don’t need to drop me off so I can think with my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. I just need a minute. I’ve never really thought about having a threesome.”

“ _More_ though.” Pete says with emphasis. “Like a threesome relationship.”

“A and B and C, like I said.”

If Frank was going to say the first thing off the top of his head, he’d have to say it sounds weird to him. There’s no way he’s going to say the first thing off the top of his head. They’re both great guys, and he doesn’t want to hurt them. And the more Frank thinks, the more he doesn’t give a fuck if it would be weird. It wouldn’t be the first weird relationship he’s had. His and Bob’s primary strength was how good they were at bothering each other. That was great, at least until it wasn’t. Who’s to say dating two people wouldn’t be great?

Saying no might hurt them. Saying yes won’t hurt Mikey, he’s made it clear he no longer cares about their interests. “We could try a date? I don’t know how long it’ll work, but I’m up for trying.”

Pete catches Frank’s eye in the rear view mirror. “No one knows how long anything will last. Movie date? I have the full oeuvre of Silent Bob. Even the Scream and Degrassi cameos.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees. There’s no place he’d rather be, except maybe a few places that will never be offered to him.

They pile into Pete’s room without saying anything to the rest of the house. Frank’s not even sure who’s home, and if it doesn’t matter to Pete and Patrick, it probably shouldn’t matter to him. He sits on Pete’s bed and tries not to react as he remembers what happened the last time he was on this mattress.

“You go make a snack, I’ll set up the movie,” Patrick instructs.

“Oh, like that’s hard. You only have to turn my laptop on. It’s one button.”

“Yeah, and the microwave has a popcorn setting button. Go make some.”

Frank watches to see if Pete will rebel. When he turns and opens the door, Frank stands and scurries after him. It doesn’t take two guys to turn on a laptop. Besides, maybe he’ll get lucky and one of the family will come in. Frank likes being able to put faces to names.

Pete insists on melted butter on his popcorn. The second the bowl is in the microwave Pete has him against the counter. Most of what Frank can smell this time is the rich, chemical laden popcorn, the entire kitchen reeks of it. But the kiss itself is as good as their last. Frank’s hands clench the hem of Pete’s shirt and Pete’s got one around the back of his neck.

Neither stop until the timer goes off. The butter has bubbled into a froth which has overflowed the bowl and is all over the removable disk. Frank laughs because it reminds him of something Mikey would do, but only points to the congealing mess when Pete looks at him. He’s not about to bring Mikey’s name up.

Frank picks through the Wentz cupboards to find something else to top the popcorn as Pete half-assedly wipes out the microwave. Frank’s mom would expect a more thorough job, but from the stories Pete’s told him he’d guess Pete’s parents won’t even bother to ask which one of their three kids messed things up.

They’re only halfway into the bowl, barely five minutes into Clerks 2 when Pete reaches out and shoves Frank’s shoulder. Unprepared for it, and therefore completely unbraced, Frank jolts hard and lands half on Patrick. For a boy that just barely avoided getting a hastily put down hand in the balls, Patrick replies quite calmly. “Wow. That’s the least subtle thing I’ve ever seen you do. And that’s saying a lot.”

“Hey, if you want to push him in my direction, I am totally cool with that.”

“I’ll share after I’m done.”

Patrick hauls him up and Frank just goes with it. He’s stretched like a seal, but his lips are on Patrick’s and Pete is drawing a line down the asscrack of his jeans. He wouldn’t move for a thousand dollars. The touch is arousing more because it makes Frank think about his ass than because the fabric is rubbing against anything vital, but there’s no question it’s arousing. More than that. Arousing implies level one interest, and Frank is level three at least. The touch makes Frank want to get fucked. Maybe twice in a row, one of them after the other. Or hell, if Frank fucked Patrick while giving Pete one of the handjobs he’s accustomed to, but something was put inside him, like a carrot or a hairbrush. That would be hot as hell.

“If we’re gonna do this right now I’m pausing the movie, and we should all take our pants off.” Patrick speaks with authority and who are they to question it? As a group they stand and take their jeans off. Frank hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear, but doesn’t take that final step when neither of them do.

“Just a quick poll,” Frank asks, mostly for Pete’s benefit. “We’re all cool with how fast this is moving?”

After a beat of silence in which no one complains Pete drops back to the bed and drags Frank with him. He’s not quite laying across Pete’s lap, they’re almost knee to knee. If Frank needed something to cling to, the edge of the mattress is in reach. The more Pete plays with the leg holes of his underwear the more Frank thinks he’s going to have to grab on. Minus a layer doesn’t make Pete’s questing fingers any easier to take.

“Can we-” Frank cuts off with a hitch when Pete presses his fingers hard against his crack. He grinds against Pete’s bed desperately. All he needs in the world is for someone or something to fill him. He doesn’t care what anymore.

“What, Frank? Can we what?”

“Fuck. Can we fuck. I need-” God. Pete’s fingers are right on his asshole, only a thin layer of cotton blocking Frank from getting what he needs.

“All you had to do was ask,” Patrick teases, pulling on the underside of his hair at the nape of his neck. “Pete, what about a train?”

“Can do.” Pete slaps Frank’s ass then pulls his underwear to mid thigh. “Hands and knees.”

Frank complies, because at this point he’d have to be completely insane not to. Patrick gets off the bed and walks the few steps to the dresser. He gets the drawer for the lube on the first try. Frank wonders if it’s just an obvious placement, or if they’ve fucked in the last week. He’s had a dozen opportunities to ask but he hasn’t out of some version of respect, and now he doesn’t because he’s got more important things running through his mind. Like Pete’s hand moving to his ass again. He can feel all of it, not just the duller feeling through denim or cotton. The second pass is slick and Pete wastes no time pushing the tip of his index finger inside him. Frank’s head drops as he groans. He misses the sound of the bottle being opened a second time, just barely catches Pete’s moaned _fuck, Trick_. Frank looks up to Patrick standing bent with one hand braced on the bed, fingering himself. He shares Pete’s sentiment wholeheartedly. It’s hot as hell.

“You’re gonna fuck him, and it’s gonna be crazy good. Patrick’s wanted you for a while now. He wants you to fuck him so bad. Do you want to?”

It’s impossible to say what’s undoing him more; watching, or listening or feeling. All Frank knows is that if he doesn’t get his cock touched he will keel over and die.

The bed jostles as Patrick climbs back on it. It’s Pete’s hand that directs him to Patrick’s hole. Frank’s eyes roll back in his head when he finally gets _in_. It’s a feeling that never gets old. Pete stays against his back like a sweaty cape. His fingers haven’t changed their rhythm but the sudden closeness has allowed Pete to get close enough to Frank’s neck to bite his sweet spot. Frank shudders and almost lets go of Patrick.

“Focus, Frank.”

Frank would like to reply something like _you try to focus when you’re being fucked and fucking at the same time_. He doesn’t even require pithiness, just some level of coherence. Getting that much is as likely as Pete suddenly turning into a griffin. He doesn’t have a single syllable that’s more than a moan. Still, he tries to thrust with some semblance of rhythm, and Patrick seems to appreciate the gesture.

He comes too fast. A hundred years later would be too fast. This feeling is the kind of thing that should never stop. His only consolation is that Patrick’s already come all over Pete’s bedspread, kindly letting Frank finish without complaint about being too sensitive. Frank shakes his way to standing knowing in the next minute he’ll need the bathroom. Pete’s wiping four fingers on the comforter beside Patrick’s come. Frank doesn’t remember when Pete added it, but the stretched feeling makes more sense when he sees them. He grabs his jeans, dick chafing against sudden metal zipper.

Frank needs to get out, as much for a minute to think as for beckoning bodily functions. “I’ll be right back. No one have any threesome freakouts while I’m gone. Is that even a thing? Don’t do it, even if it is.” If it is a thing, he might be the person having one.

It’s a little awkward running across the hall to the bathroom just in hastily buttoned jeans. Realistically it’s no worse than fucking with other people home, maybe even a little less. But the sprint is the thing that feels dirty to Frank.

He spends the minutes he’s on the toilet poking at his feelings, trying to figure out if he thinks the whole thing is too much. If he’s a lover, not a fucker, Frank needs to be sure he’s got enough emotions to spread between the two of them. When he comes to the consensus that it’ll probably work -at least, he doesn’t feel any more uneasy than he did in the car- he washes his hands, rubs his hands over his face, and goes back to Pete’s bedroom. He’s prepared to talk, now. They’re not. Patrick’s mouth is occupied, and Pete’s babbling, words broken with gasps just like the last time Frank saw him turned on. Frank’s not ready for a second go, but he sits at the edge of the bed anyway. Watching could be vital jerking off footage later.

“You came in my ass?” are the first real words that are said. Patrick’s lips are shiny when he speaks. For an instant he’s got a streak of come on his chin, before Pete leans in and wipes it off with a thumb. It’s almost adorable. The words aren’t an accusation, Patrick’s way too pleasantly tired to try for accusations. Frank decides to explain anyway.

“Look around this room. I’ve had sex with Bob and Pete. Bob insisted on a STD test the day after we broke up so I couldn’t blame anything on him. I don’t know how many people Pete’s exchanged fluids with, but considering you sucked his dick, you’d have anything I passed on from him.

“I do not have an STI!” Pete shouts. They both ignore him.

“Last time you were pretty insistent.”

Frank shrugs. “Might be next time. I got caught in the moment. As far as unsafe sex goes, it was pretty safe. I’m sure you would have stopped me if there was a reason to.”

“Trust is good. Video games?”

“How about we watch the next hour of Clerks?” is Patrick’s counteroffer. Frank doesn’t care either way. He’s comfortable where he’s sitting, but he’s equally willing to be comfortable in the games room. There’s no reason to go home any time soon, he can just as easily text Mikey from here.

***

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his. It’s disorienting for a second before he realises of course he has, that’s what happens when you sleep over at someone’s. Any question that last night was if not a mistake at least a misunderstanding is quashed when Patrick comes in the room fully dressed and says “I made coffee,” and Pete scrambles to his feet and says deeply reverently “I love you”, then turns to Frank still sprawled on the bed and climbs on top of him. “I love you too,” he says, and bites his ear like he’s trying to make a hickey on his cartilage. Frank bucks up to try to dislodge him, laughing as Patrick snickers from the doorway.

“We have about five minutes to leave the house. If there’s something you think would fit you you can borrow it. Fuck knows Pete does.”

Frank appreciates the offer, but he’s good. He was wearing a zippered hoodie and a t-shirt when he left school yesterday, and it’s not uncommon for him to wear the same hoodie for a week straight.

Any morning not on the bus is a good morning. This is one of the better ones, because he’s not in the backseat because he’s starting to get rundown from illness, or because it’s hailing. Frank’s sitting on torn fake velvet upholstery with Patrick singing along fucking beautifully -there’s no other word for it- in driver’s seat, Pete tapping out the bass line with one hand. Pete’s got a Slurpee brand mug of coffee in his other hand, it has to hold at least six cups. Frank’s sure that much caffeine is bad for someone, but it seems a bit early in the relationship to be nagging about personal habits. If Pete starts having heart palpitations then he’ll intervene.

Frank’s not sure what level of punishment is waiting for him when he gets home. On one hand, he did text to tell her that he wouldn’t be coming home. On the other hand, he didn’t ask permission. For now though he’s happy about his decision making. After all, he’s got two boyfriends now. One of whom is holding his freakin’ hand as they walk into the school from the student parking lot. Frank automatically looks down. Pete’s fingers look good with his. Pete spent almost an hour last night drawing the word Halloween on Frank’s fingers, yellow to orange to red to brown, the each letter outlined with black. Pete’s fingernails are covered in chipped blue polish.

“So we’ll see you at lunch, in the band room?”

Pete shakes his head before Frank can answer. “Frank and Mikey eat lunch together. They have every day except the day you molested him.”

“So you really were stalking him.” Frank was positive about Facebook, and he was right, and he was pretty sure about strategic seat placement in the caf, and he’s apparently right about that too.

“You should never doubt that I’m stalking the people I care about.”

“He meant that to sound way less creepy than it does,” Patrick interjects quickly. He must be used to explaining Pete’s thoughts to others. Frank doesn’t need the explanation though, he just thinks it’s funny. He separates from them with a laugh, and bolts to homeroom.

Mikey’s nowhere to be seen at lunch. Frank can’t help but feel a little grateful about it. He needs a day or two to figure out how to tell his friends about his threesome relationship. Poly, as Patrick keeps calling it. He’s pretty sure he gets what they’re gonna do, what they _are_ doing, but he needs a way to explain it to others. Frank waits fifteen minutes to make sure Mikey didn’t get caught up asking Gibbons a question about a project, then goes down the hall to the band room and knocks. He didn’t watch Patrick’s door jimmying system well enough to be able to do it himself it.

It when Mikey doesn’t show up to fourth period that Frank gets worried. It’s not even the end of September yet. It’s too early to be skipping full days.

Fifth period American History the class has a substitute. Clearly uninterested in doing anything educational, the sub takes rollcall then escorts them to the library and lets them loose. With the cunning and speed of a Slytherin Frank snags one of the few free computers in the small bank against the wall. He’s intent on checking Facebook. Any year now it’ll be banned as dozens of others website have been, but for now it’s still accessible. He wants to check Mikey’s status, see if there’s anything about being ill.

Banned for a good reason, apparently. Any FCC censor would have a field day with Frank’s timeline. It’s nothing but a history of slurs and hate, from about thirty members of the Toro clan. Ray and his two older brothers feature heavily, but everyone that’s peripherally related has at least one comment. If Frank wasn’t confused and kind of pissed he’d be impressed at the creativity of some of them. The things Ray’s grandma on his mom’s side are telling him to do with animals aren’t even physically possible.

Not wanting to create more of a feud on his timeline he pulls out his phone and texts **I’m confused. The only other time you did this was when I broke your guitar, but I haven't seen you in a week and it was fine when we left.**

Ray doesn’t have the same qualms about fighting in public. A minute later Ray comments on his timeline. Bro rule 1: don’t fuck your best friend’s exes. The number of Likes go up with each refresh.

He takes a few minutes trying to figure out how Mikey knows. Frank checks Patrick’s Facebook first. His is all links to Youtube videos, classic rock and glam and motown, mostly. There’s nothing to be seen, except that they’re going to be having future discussions about Queen vs Prince. Pete has changed his status three times since last night. First _they say my tattoos taste like licorice_ , then _heart like an anorexic see saw_ , then _dream for me i’ll mop your brow_. It’s not a declaration in the normal sense, but maybe Mikey can read the snippets of poetry and understand them. It’s more than Frank or Patrick have said, anyway.

The substitute escorts them back to the classroom a few minutes before the bell. By the time that it goes off Frank’s decided he can’t stay. The sooner this gets under control the better. Last period on a Friday he probably won’t be the only one skipping anyway.

Frank has a spare key to the Way house, the Bryar house, and the Toro house. He was kind of surprised when Bob never asked for his back, and with Ray at Penn he doesn’t need his, but he still has them both on his keyring. When he sees Mrs Way’s car on the street he considers knocking for a second, but doesn’t. Better to sneak in, just in case she’s angry with him. She might know about this, at least Mikey’s perspective of it, or she might still have a grudge about him bailing on the birthday party.

Mikey’s under his blanket. Frank can see the outline of his body and not much else. The back of his head is a third under the blanket, a third sunk into the soft down pillow, and a third hood of a hoodie. The only other thing he can see is his foot hanging off the bed, a sliver of ankle between sock and sweatpant. If Frank was just a friend he’d tell him he’s sweating through all his layers and stinking up the room. If Frank was his boyfriend, he’d tell him he’ll get heatsick, and to take off his hoodie. But right now -fucking always- his roles are confused, and as his rational self is trying to decide which route to take, his mouth opens and out spills “since when do you even care? You haven't cared the last two weeks. You didn't care enough to even tell me about him until Patrick approached me.”

“If my mom hears me crying she'll claw out your eyeballs.”

Frank doesn't doubt it. He's seen her fingernails. He could almost believe it’s an issue of concern. Mikey’s voice is heavy like he has been crying. But Frank’s question still stands. Mikey spent the last two weeks of August not giving a shit about Pete, and he’s spent the last two weeks insisting that Pete was just a summer fling. And now all of a sudden he’s choosing to be upset when it looks like Pete might have finally moved on? It’s a dick move, pure and simple.

Of course, if Mikey’s being a dick about Pete, it’s possible he’s going to be a dick to Frank and set him up. Hell, he’s already sort of done it with Ray. “What, so you're gonna fake crying out of bro revenge sensibilities? Like you got Ray to make his family send me hate messages? Which I’m fucking sure violate terms and conditions of having an account, not that I’m contacting authorities or anything.”

“I didn’t tell Ray to do shit,” Mikey mutters head still muffled by the pillow. “I saw Pete’s lyrics, I saw you three come in. I was waiting so if you were late we’d have detention together and all of you- I freaked out. Had a panic attack. Next thing, I’m at Ray’s, except of course he’s not there, it’s just his mom. And she helped. She’s as good as he is, guess he had to learn it somewhere. But she was really mad too. She drove me home. I guess she ranted after she got back home.”

Frank gets that, at least in theory. It’s hardly the first time Mrs Toro has activated a rage phone-tree. Toros descend like wasps when one of their own is hurt. This time specifically though, the rage doesn’t make sense. His voice is dripping with disbelief as he asks “you got so pissy about Pete no longer doting on you that you went to Ray’s mom?”

At that Mikey sits up and looks at him. Directly at him, eye contact burning a hole in him. “No, you utter fucking asshole! I love Pete!”

“Um.”

If it’s true, he had over a month of days in which to contact him again and make things work. Frank gets now why seeing Pete with someone else would upset Mikey, but he still kinda brought it on himself. He’s opening his mouth to say something to that effect when Mikey looks away and drops his face into his hands.

“I know he didn't love me, he could barely touch me. He was pushing himself beyond his boundaries to have a summer experimentation. And it's fucking September, so. But then it wasn't experimentation. He just didn't like _me_ enough to want to see me naked. Can’t fucking blame him for not wanting to. I’m not fuckin’ Jared Padalecki. Shit, not even Shawn Ashmore. So go be naked with him. And fucking Patrick too. Makes sense, I guess. Everyone always thought those two should be together. Just appreciate it.”

Frank feels like a deer in the headlights, holding perfectly still so he doesn’t accidentally do the wrong thing. He’s got no idea what to say. He’s always known that Mikey doesn't like his legs or his teeth -stupid opinions, truly- but he didn't think Mikey was that insecure about stuff.

“Why are you still here, Frank? Go away. Go be with them.”

Frank doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t just leave.

Mikey falls back onto his back, and rolls to again face the wall. “I’ll be happy for you on Monday. Just give me the weekend. Please?”

Frank pauses for a moment, then turns and closes the door behind him. He’s never heard Mikey’s voice sound like that before. If what Mikey needs from him is for him to go away, that’s what Frank will do. He owes him that, at least.

***

Frank’s original plan is to stay in his bedroom until the end of time. Knowing that somewhere else in the city Mikey is doing the same it feels only right. The plan, such as it is, backfires nearly immediately. He realises that the only thing worse than making his best friend and longtime crush feel that bad about himself is doing so then having to explain it to Mom when she asks why he’s not going over to his best friend’s house as per weekend routine. So Frank leaves, before her motherly radar gets pinged.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do for the day, just that he can’t come back until late evening without getting questioned. He catches the bus that stops nearest his house then focuses all of his attention on silently singing along to his iPod. Personalised karaoke might save him from thinking, something that he really doesn’t want to do right now.

At the stop outside the mall the bus cycles passengers nearly entirely, as many walking out of the back door as step on through the front. The bus continues to idle, Frank’s ridden them enough to know that at certain stops they have to idle for about five minutes. He sits waiting for the driver to change gears until the last possible second, then holds down the yellow strip on the back door until it opens. There’s nothing in the mall he particularly wants to buy, but it’s a decent waste of time.

After a few minutes of walking Frank heads out of one of the mall’s side entrances. He’s too restless to sit on the bus, and he’s too restless to look at mannequins wearing seasonal coloured clothing. He stands there smoking, each exhaled cloud quickly whisking away. He flicks his ash into one of the weird planters filled with pebbles, and tries to forget last night. The problem is he’s incapable of distracting himself. He needs external stimulation, and window shopping isn’t going to cut it.

Frank knows how to get to Pete’s house from the mall. It’ll take longer -a lot longer- walking than it did in his mom’s car, but he’s not exactly in a time crunch. He tries to ignore the voice that reminds him this is exactly what Mikey spitefully told him to do.

He’s listened to Offspring’s greatest hits CD once and is halfway through it a second time when he comes to a halt on Pete’s step. Frank rings the doorbell and waits for his call to be answered. When it’s been a good minute and no one has come, Frank powers down his iPod, pushes his headphones down to curl around his neck and presses the doorbell again. This time he’ll be able to hear if it doesn’t, if it’s been disabled or something, and go straight to knocking.

_ding dong_

“Shit,” he mutters. That’s clearly not the answer. Which only leaves a few more options, none of which he particularly likes. Maybe the Wentzs don’t answer doors, thinking everyone is a religion freak or someone begging donations. Maybe no one is home, and his hour plus walk has been a waste. Maybe Pete saw all the hate on his timeline. After Frank had deleted it all, only to come back an hour later and see his timeline repopulated with nastiness, he’d had no choice but to delete his account. Frank digs out his cellphone and sends **you home?** and hopes it’s the first option.

Pete doesn’t bother to text back. Instead Frank can hear the thuds of someone quickly navigating a set of stairs, and a moment later the door opens. Pete’s mouth splits into a grin and he pulls Frank in for a hug, completely uncaring that Frank’s shirt is translucent with sweat.

After a quick kiss they pull apart. “You walk here?” Pete asks, glancing slightly beyond Frank for a car.

“I wanted to hang out?” he replies inadequately. If Pete doesn’t know about ...things from Facebook stalking, Frank doesn’t want to talk about them.

“Party time? Well, it’s unscheduled, but we can make it work. Lemme just call Patrick and ask if we can come over to his house.”

“Why his?” Not that Frank minds switching. He’d even be willing to walk, if he had to. He’s just wants to know. There are so many things Pete and Patrick know about each other that he doesn’t. He has to ask if he ever wants things like hanging out at Patrick’s, not Pete’s, on Saturday afternoons to be automatic.

“My parents are married with three kids. Patrick’s are divorced with three kids. Mine give a shit on scheduled intervals, which is pretty good. But Patrick’s usually aren’t even home, which is better. The siblings are in elementary, so they have to stay with the parent that’s home, and Trick usually stays in the empty house.”

“That’s cool.” Well, maybe cool. Frank’s not sure he would want to be in that situation. There’s a difference between wishing your parents would fuck off and having them literally not be there. Frank’s not sure he could live alone, not until he’s at least graduated college, and even then he’d always sort of thought of living with Mikey or Ray. There’s no question though that it is convenient.

Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot as Pete disappears. He didn’t tell Frank to follow him, so Frank doesn’t. He jams his hands in his pockets then takes them out to resettle his headphones before finally deciding to slip his shoes off. There’s no welcome mat so he’s grinding his heels into the beige carpet. If his mom saw him right now she’d probably smack him.

Pete comes back a minute later doing a weird shuffle that Frank’s seen before. More than likely Pete’s tried to jam his feet into his sneakers without undoing the laces, but the abused backs of the shoes have crumpled under his heels and only his toes are in the shoe. Frank can’t blame him, he can’t even remember the last time he undid his properly, his bow is more of a crusted over knot. Pete grabs a zippered hoodie from the closet beside the door and hooks it over his arms. “Patrick says he’s meeting us at his dad’s.”

Pete reaches beyond him to grab the doorknob. “Aren’t you gonna-” Frank cuts himself off. No, Pete’s not going to tell his parents where he’s going. He should know that by now, without having to abort stupid questions.

Pete drives up the driveway and parks tight against the garage. The front door is unlocked, and against all rules of logic and sanity Pete doesn’t hesitate to go in. He doesn’t even curl his hands into fists in case he has to suddenly do battle with a mass murderer making his bloody way out of the house. Frank forces himself to go in next, wishing he had a crowbar for the inevitable.

Evidently Frank’s imagination is too strong, or at least too warped. They get their shoes off and into the living room no problem. Once they’re inside Frank thinks this Stump house is probably the original house. Unless the parent that owns it is just overcompensating. There are growth charts carved into the doorframe of the kitchen, and the carpet has food stains, and those hard bit of grey that come from glue stick sliding off the page and landing on carpet. He doesn’t ask Pete, and probably won’t ask Patrick either. His parents split up went pretty decently, considering the nature of the event, but not everyone reacts well to the ‘we still love you, but we hate each other’ conversation.

There’s no sign of Patrick, apart from the door being unlocked. Pete leads him to a room on the second floor. Patrick’s sitting at his desk. He clashes horribly with his pumpkin walls. It’s almost cute. So is the hello kiss Pete gives Patrick before bothering to take off his sunglasses.

The next three hours comprise of two Freddy Kruger movies, one bowl of M&M sprinkled popcorn, one bowl of cheese sprinkled popcorn, about a thousand kisses, and four orgasms because Pete is a cheater.

As the credits roll, Patrick shirks his duty of getting off the bed to exit out of VLC Player to look at both of them across the bed. “Instead of just hanging out we should go somewhere on a date.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“I dunno. I came up with the date idea, one of you be a good boyfriend and take me somewhere.”

“I’ve got a good dating technique.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Frank looks at Patrick but he doesn’t seem to have any idea either. Pete leaves the room for a second and comes back with the phone book. Frank can’t even remember the last time he used one, though he’s sure one gets delivered to his house each year. Pete tosses it with a thunk to Patrick’s desk. He opens it to a random page and scans it. “There we go. Desi Pizza and Sweets. We’re gonna go check out Desi Pizza and Sweets and I’m sure there will be something glorious there.”

Frank checks over his shoulder at the listing. “I’ve never even heard of that street.”

“Good thing I’m the driver.”

“We’re going to starve to death,” Patrick groans, utterly resigned to the idea of a cross town roadtrip.

Pete grins. “Don’t worry, we can always resort to cannibalism.”

It takes a while to get there. If Pete ever loses track of his location he doesn’t say anything, but with Patrick ready on standby to roll his eyes he’s probably not going to say he’s lost even if he is. The place looks decent from the outside. Big windows show off big dark tables and waitresses all in blue. Even if it was a pit they’d probably dine in anyway, just for the experience of following a random whim to its conclusion.

Just beyond the front door is a podium with a sign on it that says _please wait to be seated_. As far as waiting areas go, it’s pretty decent. No length of padded bench to sit on, but the walls are distracting enough. It’s like someone went to Etsy and bought one of every print that came up once they typed ‘pizza’ or ‘dessert’. They wait about thirty seconds, looking at the artwork before Pete focuses in on the distance and nudges Patrick.

“Is that,”

“Shit, I think it is.”

With the kind of unspoken mutual agreement Frank has with his own friends, Pete and Patrick both move into the seating area and head towards the couple in the corner booth. Frank goes with it, hoping their obvious disregard for the restaurant’s rules won’t get them kicked out. It takes him a second to place the male half of the couple in the booth as one of the more constant guys in Mikey’s pictures. Disashi Lumumba-Kasongo, if Pete’s Facebook pictures were tagged properly.

“Fancy meeting you here!”

Disashi checks his watch -tonight is apparently blast from the past night, Frank can’t remember the last time he saw someone wear a watch- and then tilts his head like he’s confused. “You’re early. Like, way early. Our next scheduled hang out is in ten months. Or like the camp song said, it’s been awhile since I first saw you.”

The girl punches Disashi lightly in the arm. “Introductions, please.”

Disashi explains to his girlfriend “That’s Pete. That’s Patrick. That’s. I dunno who that is.”

“I’m Frank.”

“I’m Sashi, and this is my girl Katrina.”

She laughs, big hoop earring bouncing. “He’s my boy, really.”

Pete grins, teeth flashing snow white in the intimate lighting. “Yeah, I know how that is.”

“Where’s Mikey at?”

“I. Uh.”

Patrick steps in with the ease that comes with years of helping Pete. “We don’t really see him anymore.”

“Shit, really? I always figured you’d get off your dumb ass and join Pete and Mikey. You’re telling me Mikey fucked off so you got this guy?”

“Frank’s not a Mikey replacement, Sashi.”

“Yeah. No one could beat Mikeyway.”

“I didn’t mean it like-” Pete stops as the waitress behind him with a platter of pizza makes her displeasure known. They move out of her way.

Sashi doesn’t offer to share the booth, and they don’t ask. Pete crosses to a table across the room and they all sit. They chat casually, mostly about food, as they flip through the menus. Most restaurants split their menus into breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinks. That’s not something this place is concerned with. Desi’s menu is split into pizza, pie, cake, and dairy. It’s kind of stoner heaven, and looking around Frank would be willing to bet three quarters of the customers are currently high. Hell, the waitress that comes to take their orders has white girl dreads.

Even through his bites of the best cheese pizza he’s ever eaten, Frank can’t stop thinking about Disashi’s comments. Frank’d thought they’d had a love V at camp; Pete the centre point between Mikey and Patrick. Mikey’d thought the same. But their summer friends, the ones with the true perspective, they thought poly. And Patrick knew that word, knew that concept. It’s possible Patrick just looked it up in the week between their first time and the car conversation. But it’s equally possible he looked it up on one of the slow speed computers in the tiny library at camp. It’s possible he’s wanted this for a long time, since before Frank showed up on the scene.

Frank shouldn’t be here. It should be Mikey. Yes, he feels as happy with them as he ever did with Bob. Maybe more; this relationship has joy, not interested aggravation. But his wanting doesn’t really matter. Just because he wants to be here and joyous with them doesn’t mean he deserves it.

The bathroom is near the front door. Frank thinks he’s going to take a piss to give himself time to settle his thoughts before they show on his face and Pete and Patrick ask him questions he’s not ready to answer, but no. Somehow he’s bypassing the door with the crude art of a slice of cake with a penis and shouldering through the glass door. He’s outside. He’s separated from them, and it already hurts, but he knows it’s right.

He paces the concrete slab in front of the restaurant for a minute. A cigarette would be great, but he’s pretty sure his box with two left was left at Patrick’s. It’s not the only thing he’s missing. His wallet is on the table, beside Pete and Patrick’s, along with Pete’s shitty sunglasses, and his own fingerless gloves. It’s not much of a decision to abandon both items. The thirty dollars is not worth going back in.

 **one of you text Mikey** he texts.

Patrick’s message comes first. **what are you talking about?**

Frank sends back **Mikey loves both of you**.

The dramatic kid inside him wants to find a sea to throw his phone into so that he may never speak again. The realist in him just powers it down and slides it into his pocket. It’s time for more brain numbing walking.

This time he ends up in a park. It’s one of the newer ones, with woodchips instead of sand. They look kind of gross, lumpy and dark brown with water, but they compress under his sneakers as he walks over them instead of remaining hardpacked. They’re probably safer for kids when they fall down. Frank kicks a section spitefully, digging the plastic tip of his converse into them and pushing some of the chips aside. When he was a kid it was all sand, or sometimes just plain concrete. No one ever worried about whether his generation would get bruises. If parents are worried about something as simple as a scraped knee, what are they going to do when it’s 2022 and their child comes home sobbing because they’ve broken their goddamn heart?

He doesn’t want to go, but he can’t just stand here. It’s weird, bordering on creepy. Lucky he’s short enough that he can be a junior high kid, and twelve is just young enough to be playing. Frank looks around the equipment, casting his eyes for something to do. He’s always been a fan of the tulip seats, but a six year old is riding the other one, and the mother standing there might stab him if he sits near the child.

The next best thing is the climbing apparatus. It’s a lot better than plain monkeybars, it’s half of a globe, with each rod large enough to fall between. The bars are cold. If he had his fingerless gloves it would help. Though, realistically he probably wouldn’t wear them. He can’t remember ever wearing mittens during recess, even if his hands were bright red and sore by the time the fifteen minutes was up. His mom used to yell at him whenever he had frostbite, like the strength of her voice could warm his fingers and the curls of his ears. Frank hooks his knees over one bar and hangs on a few feet down.

All the lights are off when Frank finally comes home. It’s not that much of a surprise. It’s Saturday, around ten. Frank doesn’t really want to think about his mom having a hot date, but if she doesn’t come home it wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocks the front door, happy his keys stayed in his pocket when his wallet left his jeans. There’s no spare he can get to from outside the house. His grandpa has a spare, but any time he’s ever needed one he’s used Ray’s or Bob’s or the Ways.

Frank turns the kitchen light on for a minute so he can grab a juice box. They’ve got multiple flavours, and sure there are half a dozen healthier things in the fridge, but at this point he needs to fall into a sugar coma. Maybe he’ll have Fruit Roll Ups for dinner. He needs to eat something, at least. He’s hungry as fuck, he hasn’t eaten since the handfuls of popcorn when he was with his boyfriends. Fuck. Ex-boyfriends. He was only dating them for three days, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember.

Shit, it shouldn’t be that upsetting. Seventy two hours does not give a man enough time to fall head over heels.

Frank grabs a box of FudgeeOs from the cupboard and heads for the living room. It’s got a larger screen than the computer does, and they own a bunch of shows on DVD. He’s in the mood for a Angel marathon. Season three or four, probably. All misery, all the time.

It’s impossible to say what’s more stereotypical; the shriek he lets out, the step back he takes, or the box that crushes in his left hand as the juice box squeezes and grape juice hemorrhages out the straw. Those are stereotypes for a reason though, and Frank would demand to know who wouldn’t react nervously when something coughed when someone walked into a pitch black room.

“Chill, Frank. It’s us.” Frank’s hand bats at the light switch on the wall. It’s Pete’s voice, but his system is so jacked into fight or flight that his hindbrain is screaming at him to make sure it’s not a demon possessed Pete, or a vampire Pete.

Pete looks normal. So does Patrick, who’s sitting beside him. So does Mikey, who’s on the opposite end of the sectional.

“What the fuck!” He means to continue, with ‘why is Mikey here’, or ‘why are you sitting with the lights off’, or ‘get out’, but they all want to take precedence and nothing comes out.

“Be more specific.”

“Why the hell were you all sitting in the dark? Did you want me to piss myself? Fuck.”

Frank lets Mikey take the dripping juicebox from him as he stands and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with a roll of paper towels. He crumples a few then tosses them to the purple stain and stands on them, getting the paper to soak up the juice he’s squeezing out of the carpet.

“That was Patrick’s fault. We were watching a movie when we heard the door open, he turned the tv off.”

“I meant to just pause it, but your buttons are in weird places.”

“Okay.” Frank can see that, Patrick’s not the first to bitch about the off brand universal remote. Bob complained every time. “But that forces me to ask, why the fuck were you watching a movie in my house while I wasn’t home.”

“We were waiting for our boyfriend to stop his Australian style walkabout and come home and watch with us.”

“If you thought I was going to change my mind so easily- Which I’m not, by the way. But if you thought that, why would you bring Mikey?”

“Frank, I’m pretty fucking invested in all the shit that’s been happening the last few weeks.”

He knows that. Christ, of course he knows Mikey’s invested. Mikey’s the one that’s had to suffer through Frank fucking things up again and again. “I know that. Why are. I don’t.” It’s so fucking frustrating that he can’t speak in a full fucking sentence when all of this is so painfully clear in his head. “God, would you three just fuck off and go to Patrick’s place and be happy or whatever? You don’t need to be here to be happy. Actually, being here really sucks, if not for you, then for me. Mikey, you wanted the weekend, right? Can’t you gimme the same?”

“We want to be happy with you, fucktard.”

Frank shakes his head. “But- Mikey. Look at him, you know it’s better. It boils down to if you love something, let it go, right? So I’m letting the three of you go, so you can find each other.”

Patrick crosses his arms. “You notice how we’re in your room, finding you?”

“That’s just ‘cause I’m immature and turned my phone off. Once we talk about it you’ll understand.”

“This is me talking,” Pete says. He falls to his knees from the couch and puts one hand on the zippered bulge of Mikey’s crotch, and one on Frank’s. “Enough words?”

“No. You’re saying you want an orgy?”

Pete smiles a little. “I thought I was demonstrating?”

Patrick kicks Pete’s hip, and Frank has a great moment of thinking he’s not the only one before Patrick starts talking. “It’s not an orgy. That’s like Brian Kinney twink club bullshit. This is poly. Four people can still be poly.”

It seems kind of ridiculous to Frank. “So what, you can just keep adding people until there’s ten or fifteen?”

He’s hoping for a laugh. A laugh means they’re seeing reason. Instead Mikey’s looking at him and Pete’s hand is cupping him and Patrick is still talking angrily. “Do you have anyone besides us three? Want to be with, and, and fuck, and laugh at? Do you have ten? Because I’d be willing to meet them.”

That’s just unfair, Frank can’t help but think.

“I’ll be happy to laugh at you both while Pete blows you,” Mikey offers with a bit of a smirk.

“His orgasm face isn’t that ridiculous,” Pete replies.

This is all sort of overwhelming. Frank doesn’t normally consider himself Mr Serious, but presuming that Pete and Mikey think the same way that Patrick does, it’s sort of something they should talk about instead of making sex jokes. Frank’s about to say something when Patrick does it for him.

“Can we all just be intelligent for a second?”

“Really?”

“Fuck off, Trick. Respect your boyfriends!”

Patrick sighs heavily. If, by some insane miracle this does end up working, it’ll probably the the first of a near infinite number of times Patrick sighs. “Fine. Logical, then. Me and Pete are best friends and will be forever, this just adds to it. Me and Frank work. I could easily be with Mikey. Pete and Mikey started all of this. Frank and Pete are great together. So it comes down to if Mikey is attracted to me, and if Frank and Mikey can work.”

Pete interrupts “And Frank loves Mikey, so that’s that side done.”

“Pete!”

“Now is not the time to be subtle about your feelings. Not that you really were. Your crush is as subtle as a brick to the face.”

Clearly Pete’s wrong. Mikey’s stunned.

Patrick glares. “Pete, have some fucking tact or something.”

“What,” he demands defensively. “Tell me now is a good point to lie about shit.”

“I didn’t say _lie_ , I-”

Frank decides to let them bicker as he deals with the most immediately important thing. He turns to Mikey, who looks like he got run over by a truck. “You. Uh. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, it’s just Gerard said something a while back. But I thought he was just being Gerard. He sees love between a piranha and a human leg.”

“What did he say?”

“To not have friends with benefits rebound sex with you, because it would just make things worse.”

“After Bob, you would have...”

Mikey blushes, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve wanted to feel you up since, like, junior high. So. Uh. Yeah. I would have been really into using you. But Gerard helped me not be a douche, so.”

It would probably give the wrong impression if he replies ‘you can use me any time you want’. It would be like making a rape joke or something. Frank still wants to say it. He opens his mouth, fuck only knows how inappropriate whatever comes out will be, and it’s like Patrick somehow knows. He breaks away from his face to face argument with Pete and stands, Patrick’s movement effectively stopping Frank and Mikey’s much belated conversation.

Pete joins them to form a ragged circle, reluctantly moving his hands. “I’m only not groping you because you all are really insistent about the talking. After we talk there will be much more groping.”

Frank can’t really bring himself to veto that plan. He’s not the only one, the room stays silent.

“So what now?”

“Frank and Mikey should go on a date and see if they fit. And then I guess me and Mikey too.”

Frank thinks about watching a movie without Patrick’s running commentary, about eating without worrying that Pete’s gonna choke because he’s got about seven bites of food in his mouth at once, about kissing and having the body against him not smelling like oranges, first or second hand. As much as he wants to bash his head against a wall for not broaching this with Mikey earlier and having something years ago, somehow Pete and Patrick have become just as important.

“I don’t want to date without you two. Can poly have relationships where everyone isn’t with everyone, or is that called something else?”

“Poly can be anything. It’s-”

Patrick cuts off, but the sudden lack of words doesn’t mean there’s no auditory input. Mikey’s kissing him, and he’s doing it loudly, wet and enthusiastic. Pete’s hand slips onto Frank’s ass as they both angle themselves to watch.

Mikey’s lips are shiny with spit when he finally pulls away. “Everyone in this room wants everyone in this room. So everything is going to be okay, and no one will be left out, or sacrifice themselves, or anything else stupid. Okay?”

It’s pretty much the most brilliant thing Frank’s ever heard, now that he can believe it. So yeah, it’s okay.


End file.
